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I found me in the school'us' on my seat,
Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet.
Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say
Is a hard kind odooty in its way:
It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew,
Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue.
I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell :
I thought o' the Rebellion, then o’ Hell,
Which some folks tell ye now is jest a metterfor
(A the’ry, p'raps, it wun't feel none the better

I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win
Patchin' our patent self-blow-up agin:
I thought ef this 'ere milkin' o' the wits,
So much a month, warn't givin' Natur' fits, —
Ef folks warn't druv, findin' their own milk fail,
To work the cow thet hez an iron tail,
An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the pan
Would send up cream to humor ary man:
From this to thet I let my worryin' creep,
Till finally I must ha' fell aleep.

Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide 'twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side, Where both shores' shadders kind o mix an' min.

gle In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single; An' when you cast off moorin’s from To-day, An' down towards To-morrer drift away, The imiges thet tengle on the stream Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream : Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warn


O' wut 'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's,
An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite,
Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right.
I'm gret on dreams, an' often when I wake,
I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache,
An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my

cheer 'thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer.

Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed,
An' ain't sure yit whether I r’ally dreamed,
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep',
When I hearn some un stompin' up the step,
An' lookin' round, ef two an' two make four,
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.
He wore a steeple-bat, tall boots, an' spurs
With rowels to 'em big ez ches’nut-burrs,
An' his gret sword behind him sloped away
Long 'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say. —
“Ef your name 's Biglow, an' your given-name
Hosee," sez he, “it's arter you I came;
I'm your gret-gran’ther multiplied by three.”
“My wut?sez I. — “Your gret-gret-gret," sez

he :

“ You would n't ha' never ben here but for me.
Two hundred an' three year ago this May
The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;
I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,
But wut on airth hev you gut up one for ?
Coz we du things in England, 't ain't for you
To git a notion you can du 'em tu:
I'm told you write in public prints: ef true,
It 's nateral you should know a thing or two." —

“Thet air 's an argymunt I can't endorse, 't would prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a

horse : For brains,” sez I, “ wutever you may think, Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen-an’-ink, Though mos’ folks write ez ef they hoped jes'

quickenin' The churn would argoo skim-milk into thickenin’; But skim-milk ain't a thing to change its view O' wut it's meant for more ’n a smoky flue. But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go, How in all Natur' did you come to know 'bout our affairs," sez I, “in Kingdom-Come?" “ Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone, In hopes o'larnin' wut wuz goin' on," Sez he, “but mejums lie so like all-split Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', You've some conjectures how the thing 's a-go

in'." “Gran’ther,” sez I, “a vane warn't never known Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own ; An' yit, ef ’t ain't gut rusty in the jints, It's safe to trust its say on certin pints: It knows the wind's opinions to a T, An' the wind settles wut the weather 'll be.” “I never thought a scion of our stock Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock; ; When I wuz younger ’n you, skurce more ’n a

shaver, No airthly wind," sez he, “could make me waver!”

(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead,
Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.) -
“ Jes so it wuz with me, sez I, “I swow,
When I wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,
Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,
Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find
It's a sight harder to make up my mind, -
Nor I don't often try tu, when events
Will du it for me free of all expense.
The moral question 's ollus plain enough,
It 's jes’ the human-natur side thet 's tough;
Wut's best to think may n't puzzle me nor you, —
The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du;
Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,
But come to make it, ez we must today,
Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way:
It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,
They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with nig-

gers ;
But come to try your the’ry on,

why, then Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant men Actin' ez ugly -“Smite 'em hip an' thigh !” Sez gran’ther, “and let every man-child die ! Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord ! Up, Isr’el, to your tents an' grind the sword !”. “Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee, But you forgit how long it's ben A. D.; You think thet 's ellerkence, - I call it shoddy, A thing,” sez I, “ wun't cover soul nor body; I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,

Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelve-month hence. You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned, An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the

Second; Now wut I want's to hev all we gain stick, An' not to start Millennium too quick; We hain't to punish only, but to keep, An' the cure 's gut to go a cent'ry deep." “Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,” Sez he, "an' so you 'll find afore you 're thru ; Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally. Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split, Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit: Slav'ry 's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the


“Our Charles," sez I, “hez gut eight million necks.
The hardest question ain't the black man's right,
The trouble is to 'mancipate the white;
One's chained in body an' can be sot free,
But t other's chained in soul to an idee:
It 's a long job, but we shall worry thru it;
Ef bagnets fail, the spellin’-book must du it.”
“Hosee,” sez he, “ I think you 're goin' to fail :
The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail ;
This 'ere rebellion 's nothin but the rettle, -
You 'll stomp on thet an' think you 've won the

It's Slavery thet 's the fangs an' thinkin' head,
An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,
An' cresh it suddin, or you 'll larn by waitin'
Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'!”

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