That summer in a narrow stinking alley where toilets leaked and flies edged oily puddles children walking home could hear black men singing plantation songs of cotton fields and heaven. The kids shouted ‘Honey dippers!’, laughed, ran home except for one eight year old, drawn to wait, alone. She watched long ladles swinging, slurry pouring buzzing halos round the great black heads and knew a scary kinship in the song. of far away places which were home. Something deep drew her to their song, unafraid, she stopped and listened, and lingered till the last deep notes were gone.