I hate to see the evening sun go down.

The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.

With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.

You've got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.

I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.

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.

A lean, loose-jointed Negro had commenced plunking a guitar beside me while I slept. His clothes were rags; his feet peeped out of his shoes. His face had on it some of the sadness of the ages. As he played, he pressed a knife on the strings of the guitar in a manner popularized by Hawaiian guitarists who used steel bars. The effect was unforgettable.