I can see the green fields, the pleasant meadows, the little brook that crossed them.

I remember my mother gave me bread and milk for my supper, always.

My sister washed my bare feet, when I was a little, little boy." He paused and leaned one hand against a porch post, thinking.

"A little, little boy," he repeated to himself.
"No, it isn't," he thought.

"It's Ike Anderson, growing up.