Singing, the procession started to move, with a Negro schoolteacher and a white priest in front. It wasn't very big.

White people in cars blundered up the road, stared in shock at the column, and wheeled their automobiles around to get away.

The marches urged watching Negroes to join the procession. A few did, and the group wound by the state park, passing before the reproachful eyes of Alexander Stephens. The procession passed under a railroad bridge and climbed the courthouse knoll.

Around the courthouse and on the sidewalk in front of the cafe stood a small crowd of whites, watching indifferently. Six state patrolmen slouched with folded arms. The Negro police chief was nowhere in sight.

The marches puddled on the courthouse lawn. They sang, joining arms and swaying in union. Some white boys nudged one another and giggled. A few faces stand out in my mind: an enormous Negro youth in a bluejean jacket, a tiny Negro minister, a pudgy white girl in a baggy dress.

The speakers returned, reiterated their demands, and became excited. "You saying the truth," a few demonstrators murmured. The whites smiled, amused. Then the marchers turned and straggled back down the hill. Someone said it was the police chief's day off.

We went into the cafe to buy cold sodas. The troopers were already there, sipping cokes.

"You members?" asked the man behind the counter. When we told him we weren't, he refused to serve us. The troopers, it seemed, belonged.

So we drove back to Augusta, sweating and thirsty, leaving Crawfordville baking its life out under the summer sun.