Or up the slippery knob I strain An' see a hundred hills like islan's Lift their blue woods in broken chain Out o' the sea o' snowy silence; The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth, Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin' Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth Of empty places set me thinkin'. Beaver roars hoarse with meltin' snows, Started my blood to country-dances, Can't set me goin' more 'n a dunce Thet hain't no use for dreams an' fancies. Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street I hear the drummers makin' riot, An' I set thinkin' o' the feet Thet follered once an' now are quiet,— White feet ez snowdrops innercent, Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't, No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? Did n't I love to see 'em growin', Three likely lads ez wal could be, Hahnsome an' brave an' not knowin'? tu I set an' look into the blaze Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways, Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth On War's red techstone rang true metal, Who ventered life an' love an' youth For the gret prize o' death in battle? To him who, deadly hurt, agen Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, Tippin' with fire the bolt of men Thet rived the Rebel line asunder? "T ain't right to hev the young go fust, All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust To try an' make b'lieve fill their places: Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, An' thet world seems so fur from this My eyes cloud up for rain; my mouth Will take to twitchin' roun' the cor ners; I pity mothers, tu, down South, For all they sot among the scorners: I'd sooner take my chance to stan' At Jedgment where your meanest slave is, Than at God's bar hol' up a han' Ez drippin' red ez yourn, Jeff Davis ! Come, Peace! not like a mourner bowed For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, But proud, to meet a people proud, With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted! Longin' for you, our sperits wilt ef it wuz ez pressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. | never shell this one ag'in. Subjick staited; Sence Mr. Wilbur's disease I hev n't hed expanded; delayted; extended. Pump no one thet could dror out my talons. lively. Subjick staited ag'in so 's to avide He ust to kind o' wine me up an' set the all mistaiks. Ginnle remarks; continpenderlum agoin' an' then somehow I ooed; kerried on; pushed furder; kind o' seemed to go on tick as it wear tell I run gin out. Subjick re-staited; dielooted; down, but the noo minister ain't of the stirred up permiscoous. Pump ag'in. same brewin' nor I can't seem to git ahold Gits back to where he sot out. Can't of no kine of huming nater in him but sort seem to stay thair. Ketches into Mr. Seaof slide rite off as you du on the eedge of ward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits a mow. Minnysteeril natur is wal enough his subjick; stretches it; turns it; folds an' a site better 'n most other kines I it; onfolds it; folds it ag'in so 's 't no one know on, but the other sort sech as Wel- can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bor hed wuz of the Lord's makin' an' nat- bean thet ain't aloud to say nothin' in reerally more wonderfle an' sweet tastin' pleye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' leastways to me so fur as heerd from. He is settysfide he 's rite. Gits into Johnson's used to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile hair. No use tryin' to git into his head. athout sayin' nothin' in pertickler an' I Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick misdoubt he did n't set so much by the ag'in; doos it back'ards, sideways, eendsec'nd Ceres as wut he done by the Fust, ways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive finally red on it. Concloods. Concloods him of a sort of fallin' off in spots. He more. Reads some xtrax. Sees his subwuz as outspoken as a norwester he wuz, jick a-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries but I tole him I hoped the fall wuz from to avide it. Wun't du. Misstates it. so high up thet a feller could ketch a good Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of many times fust afore comin' bunt onto staytin' on it. Tries pump. No fx. Finethe ground as I see Jethro C. Swett from ly concloods to conclood. Yeels the flore. the meetin' house steeple up to th' old You kin spall an' punctooate thet as perrish, an' took up for dead but he 's you please. I allus do, it kind of puts a alive now an' spry as wut you be. Turn-noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funin' of it over I recclected how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto the frunts of poymns, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye a spell whilst you wuz concludin' whether you 'd go in or nut espeshully ware tha wuz darters, though I most allus found it the best plen to go in fust an' think afterwards an' the gals likes it best tu. I dno as speechis ever hez any argimunts to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' I guess they never du but tha must allus be a B'ginnin' to everythin' athout it is Etarnity so I'll begin rite away an' anybody may put it afore any of his speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I don't claim no paytent. THE ARGYMUNT. Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin' about himself: thet 's jest natur an' most gin'ally allus pleasin', I b'leeve I've notist, to one of the cumpany, an' thet 's more than wut you can say of most speshes of talkin'. Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of the orjunce by let tin' 'em gether from wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop thet they air about East, A one, an' no mistaik, skare 'em up an' take 'em as they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally begins witch nobuddy need n't feel obolygated to read as I never read 'em an' attick spellin' doos an' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef I squeeze the cents out of 'em it's the main thing, an' wut they wuz made for; wut 's left 's jest pummis. "Noo "My leetle Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, "Hosee," sez he, "in litterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It's amazin' hard to come at," sez he, "but onct git it an' you 've gut everythin'. Wut's the sweetest small on airth?" sez he mone hay," sez I, pooty bresk, for he wuz allus hankerin' round in hayin'. "Nawthin' of the kine," sez he Huldy's breath," sez I ag'in. "You 're a good lad," sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about her age, "6 - you 're a good lad; but 't ain't thet nuther," sez he. "Ef you want to know," sez he, "open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, and you'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, fresh air," sez he, emphysizin', "athout no mixtur. Thet''s wut I call natur in writin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever I git a whiff on 't," sez he. I offen think o' thet when I set down to write, but the winders air so ept to git stuck, an' breakin' a pane costs sunthin'. Yourn for the last time, I DON'T much s'pose, hows'ever I should | An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my plen it, I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit, Nut while the twolegged gab-machine 's I sometimes think, the furder on I go, Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, An' when I've settled my idees, I find 't warn't I sheered most in makin' up my mind; 't wuz this an' thet an' t' other thing thet done it, Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor shun it. Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion, All th' ole flint locks seems altered to percussion, Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hint, Thet I'm percussion changin' back to flint; Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, For th' ole Queen's-arm hez this pertickler merit, It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' margin To kin' o make its will afore dischargin': I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule, No man need go an' make himself a fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare. Ez I wuz say'n', I hain't no chance to speak So 's 't all the country dreads me onct a week, But I've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head Thet sets to home an' thinks wut might be said, The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath, Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, gardin Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!) 'mongst other stories of ole times he hed, Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads, (Ef 't war n't Demossenes, I guess 't wuz Sisro,) Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row, Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees Their diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please; "An," sez the Parson, "to hit right, you must Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust; For, take my word for 't, when all 's come an' past, The kebbige-heads 'll cair the day et last; Th' ain't ben a meetin' sence the worl' begun But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one. No, nor wun't never be, for all our jaw, Till we're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war! O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could see The begnet-pint there is to an idee ! [Sensation.] Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel; They run your soul thru an' you never feel, But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin', Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin', Till you come bunt ag'in a real live fect, An' go to pieces when you'd ough' to ect! Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we're crossin' now, An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow, 'ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom Come, While t' other side druv their cold iron home. My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth, No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South, Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black, Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back; But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust To write up on his door, “No goods ou trust ; [Cries of "Thet 's the ticket!"] Give us cash down in ekle laws for all, An' they'll be snug inside afore nex' fall. Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker, Wuth minus some consid'able an acre; Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore long A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong; Make 'em Amerikin, an' they 'll begin To love their country ez they loved their sin; Let 'em stay Southun, an' you've kep' a sore Ready to fester ez it done afore. No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision, | In sunthin', come wut will, thet can't But the one moleblin' thing is Inde- be busted, cision, An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee, An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor To make a man a Man an' let him be. state Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you? "T was commonsense afore the war wuz thru ; Thet loaded all our guns an' made 'em speak So 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek; "They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now," sez she, "To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee; Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fear The tallest airthquakes we can git up here.' on Some call 't insultin' to ask ary pledge, An' say 't will only set their teeth edge, But folks you've jest licked, fur 'z ever see, [Gret applause.] Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't, But I do' want to block their only road to 't By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git Mor 'n wut they lost, out of our little wit: I tell ye wut, I'm 'fraid we'll drif' to leeward 'thout we can put more stiffenin' into He seems to think Columby 'd better ect necked Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus; "No," sez Ma Seward, "he's ez good 'z the best, All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest"; "He sarsed my Pa," sez one; "He stoned my son," Another edds. "O, wal, 't wuz jest his fun." "He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead." ""T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed.” "Wal, all we ask 's to hev it understood You 'll take his gun away from him for good; We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play, Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way. You kill your fatted calves to no good eend, 'thout his fust sayin', 'Mother, I hev sinned!' ["Amen!" frum Deac'n Greenleaf.] |