Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

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THINKING BLACK
what a prophetic touch he added to his work by graving
" Ebenezer " on its handle—the very stones and cooking-
pot crying out to God in the desert. Indeed, the whole
long story can be told in the exact terms of Banyan's
allegory : not a mere playing at " Pilgrim's Progress," for
we were pilgrims and we did daily make progress. Many
a "Hill Difficulty" lying across our track; many a
"Slough of Despond," too. Many a time we laid up
stores of future anguish in a supper of uncooked beans.
Often and often we braved the perils of pea- nuts and green
corn before turning in. Yet another handful of pea-nuts
Likewise a handful of pea-nuts. And so on and on.
Just that. On and on.
Then we get on our legs. Break camp in the silence
and solitude of the moonlight, wide awake at every pore,
the grey and ghostly light outlining weird forms of fallen
trunks and decaying roots. Ours the tip-toe of expectancy,
enjoying the two distinct thrills of a cool starry night
merging into the reddening dawn waking up the forest.
Mark you, only sixty minutes separate prospective blaze
from present blackness, yet one hour hence these forest
glades glimmering in gloom will seem things of years
ago, a far-off memory and dream. Have you caught it ?
The mere minutes separating 4 a.m. and 5 a.m. are few
and flying, yet once again fancy fights facts, making each
of these minutes seem a month. For the awful antithesis
yawning between the nocturnal and the diurnal, between
the gloom and the glory, defies you to measure it by mere
minutes. The antagonism is too abysmal. It is like