He was still a big man but the ribs stuck into his skin And the hard, dry muscles were wasted to leather thongs. “Boy, I wisht we had a good meal,” he thought with a dull Fatigue. “Dat’s Freedom’s lan’ ovah dere fer sho’, But how we gwine to swim it without a good meal? I wisht we had even a spoonful of good hot pot-licker Or a smidgin’ of barbecued shote. Dat river’s cold. Colder’n Jordan. I wisht we had a good meal.”

He went down to the river and tested it with his hand. The cold jumped up his arm and into his heart, Sharp as the toothache. His mouth wried up in a queer Grimace. He felt like crying. “I’se tired,” he said. “Flow easy, river,” he said. Then he tumbled in. The hard shock of the plunge took his breath away. So stinging at first that his arms and legs moved fast, But then the cold crept into his creaking bones And he rolled wild eyes. “Oh, God,” he thought as he struggled, “I’se weak as a cat. I ust to be a strong man.”