Saving Was Slow And Painful.

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.

The Name Of My Ailment Was Longing, And It Was Not Cured Till I Finally Went To The Department Store And Counted Out The Money In Small Coins Before The Dismayed Clerk. When I Came To The House, I Held Up The Instrument Before The Eyes Of The Astonished Household.

With A Guitar I Would Be Able To Express The Things I Felt In Sounds.

Where The Tennessee River, Like A Silver Snake, Winds Her Way Through The Clay Hills Of Alabama, Sits High On These Hills, My Home Town, Florence.

You'll Never Miss The Water 'til The Well Runs Dry.