In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.

Saving was slow and painful.

Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.

My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.

I hate to see the evening sun go down.

If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.

I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.