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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Why, the nig colored people have built themselves a six-hundred dollar church; we white folks helped them," said Garnet, who had given fifty cents. "See that new sidewalk? Our chain-gang did that, sir; made the bricks and laid the pavement." The court-house was newly painted. Only Hotel Swanee and the two white churches remained untouched, sleeping on in green shade and sweet age.
Pettigrew stood silent among the crystalline beauties of mathematical truth, and a dozen students leaped to their feet as the daughter's long wail came ringing through the house mingled with the cry of Johanna. "Too late! Too late! De daughteh o' Zion done gone in unbeseen!" Through two days more Fair lingered, quartered at the Swanee Hotel, and conferred twice more with John March.
Under the town's southeasternmost angle, between yellow banks and over-hanging sycamores, the bright green waters of Turkey Creek, rambling round from the north and east, skipped down a gradual stairway of limestone ledges, and glided, alive with sunlight, into that true Swanee River, not of the maps, but which flows forever, "far, far away," through the numbers of imperishable song.
From the tower's south window there was a wide view up and down the Swanee and across the bridge, into Blackland. March never looked that way but he found himself staring at those unfinished smelting works. Smart saplings were growing inside the roofless walls, and you could buy the whole plant for the cost of its brick and stone. The north window view hurt still worse.
During the boom Tom Hersey's Swanee Hotel repaired, enlarged, repainted had become Hotel Swanee. At the corner of the two streets on which it fronted he had added a square tower or "observatory." But neither guests nor "residenters" had made use of it as he had designed.
The chief listened and agreed at once, turning to the others in the room. "Who's had the jumping headache? Okay, Swanee. Who never had it?" He blinked in surprise as three men nodded out of the eight present. "I guess you go, Tom." The two men stood up, tamping out their weeds, and went out with Doc. Chris had everything set up. They matched coins to decide who would be treated.
The multitude huzzaed; the bell clanged; gay with flags the train came thundering in; out in the blazing sunlight Captain Champion, with sword unsheathed, cried "Fire!" The gun flashed and crashed, the earth shook, the people's long shout went up, the sax-horns sang "Way Down upon the Swanee River" and the tears of a true Southerner leaped into Barbara's eyes.
While he was speaking the sounds about them suddenly hushed, and, as Redgrave said afterwards, it was something like the silence that follows a cannon shot. Then, in the midst of the hush, Zaidie put her hands behind her, looked up towards the luminous silver surface which formed the only visible sky of Venus, and began to sing "The Swanee River."
We landed and walked over to the lake front, where the whole slope was packed with people waiting for the fireworks to begin. Someone started to sing "Way Down upon the Swanee Ribber," and everybody joined in. "Nearer, my God, to Thee" was also most impressive from the vast impromptu chorus.
Far behind, at the very edge of the vast dark throng, some voices began singing: "Way down upon the Swanee ribber." The tune floated forth, ceased, spurted up once more, and died. Then, in the very centre of the square a stentorian baritone roared forth: "Should auld acquaintance be forgot!"
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