They never seemed to weary of singing, and we certainly did not of listening to them.

The absolute independence of the conventionalities of tune and sentiment, gave them freedom to wander through a kaleideoscopic variety of harmonic effects, as spontaneous and changeful as the song of a bird.
I sat one evening, long after the shadows of night had fallen upon the hillside, with one of my chums--a Frank Berkstresser, of the Ninth Maryland Infantry, who before enlisting was a mathematical tutor in college at Hancock, Maryland.

As we listened to the unwearying flow of melody from the camp of the laborers, I thought of and repeated to him Longfellow's fine lines: THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT.
And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strong emotion; For its tones by turns were glad Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon gates at night.
But, alas, what holy angel Brings the slave this glad evangel And what earthquake's arm of might.
Breaks his prison gags at night.
Said I: "Now, isn't that fine, Berkstresser ?" He was a Democrat, of fearfully pro-slavery ideas, and he replied, sententiously: "O, the poetry's tolerable, but the sentiment's damnable.".