One Saturday Mahalia Jackson skipped down the dirt road after her ten-year-old brother. “Peter,” she cried, “wait for me.”

Peter was on his way to the levee along the Mississippi River. He looked back at his five-year old sister, playing along after him. “Hurry up, Halie,” he called.

Mahalia didn’t really care whether she caught up with him or not. Mostly she enjoyed skipping along barefooted in the fine dirt. Gradually the dust formed a light brown coating on her feet which looked like a pair of shoes. She laughed and called to her brother, “Wait for me, Peter. Wait to see my new shoes.”

By now Peter was running up the levee. He called back to Mahalia. “What crazy talk! You don’t have new shoes.”

Of course, Mahalia knew that she was only pretending. She laughed and looked at her shoes of dust again. She was very happy with those shoes.

She was happy too to be away from home. The Jackson family lived in a little three-room house in a district called the Front of the Town. Their neighbors included other African-Americans and immigrants from Europe. All of them were poor and had to work hard to make a living. Mahalia Jackson was born October 26, 1911, on Water Street. Her father, John Andrew Jackson, was pastor of the Mount Moriah Baptist Church. During the week, he worked part-time as a stevedore, helping to load and unload boats at docks along the river, and parttime as a barber.

Since Mahalia’s family didn’t have much money, she and Peter didn’t just play at the levee. While they were there, they usually gathered driftwood to burn in the kitchen stove, or caught crabs, shrimp, and little alligators to take home for their mother to cook.

Today, after Mahalia quit admiring her makebelieve shoes, she ran fast to catch up with Peter on the levee. Peter already had gone on down to the edge of the river. He was peering into the water, hoping to catch some little critter to take home for their mother to cook for supper that evening.

Mahalia sat down on the levee and looked at the muddy Mississippi. The water moved slowly but steadily along, its surface shining in the sunlight.

As Mahalia sat on the levee, she could see big boats tied up at the river docks a short distance away. She wondered whether her father was there, working with other men to load and unload the boats. She wondered what they were putting into the boats or taking out of them.

Mahalia closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the city. She could hear the loud toots of boats traveling up and down the river and from farther away the shrill whistles of railroad locomotives. In between she could hear soft gentle music coming from nearby streets. The whole city seemed to be filled with colorful and exciting sounds.

Soon Mahalia jumped to her feet and ran on down to Peter at the edge of the water. He was intently watching a small alligator stretched out in the warm sunshine. He pointed to a stick, which Mahalia promptly picked up and handed to him. He raised the stick and brought it down with a sharp crack on the alligator’s head.

Peter and Mahalia now started home, with Peter carrying the little alligator. When they reached the house, Mama asked, “What are you bringing home from the river?”

“A little alligator for supper,” Peter replied proudly.

That evening the Jackson family had a tasty feast of alligator tail, baked and smothered with onions and herbs. Soon after supper, Peter and Mahalia got ready for bed. The next day was Sunday, and they would have to get up early to go to church. Their father would preach there, as he did every Sunday morning.

When Mahalia climbed into bed, she went right to sleep.