Puslapio vaizdai
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But Brown he axed him in, and he sot
Him down to his vittles smokin' hot,

And when he had filled hisself and the floor

Brown looked at him sharp and riz and swore
That, "whether men's land was rich or poor

Thar was more in the man than thar was in the land."

MACON, GEORGIA, 1869.

JONES'S PRIVATE ARGYMENT.

THAT air same Jones, which lived in Jones,
He had this pint about him :

He'd swear with a hundred sighs and groans,
That farmers must stop gittin' loans,

And git along without 'em :

That bankers, warehousemen, and sich

Was fatt'nin' on the planter,

And Tennessy was rotten-rich

A-raisin' meat and corn, all which
Draw'd money to Atlanta :

And the only thing (says Jones) to do
Is, eat no meat that's boughten:

But tear up every I, O, U,

And plant all corn and swear for true
To quit a-raisin' cotton!

Thus spouted Jones (whar folks could hear,
-At Court and other gatherin's),
And thus kep' spoutin' many a year,
Proclaimin' loudly far and near

Sich fiddlesticks and blatherin's.

But, one all-fired sweatin' day,
It happened I was hoein'

My lower corn-field, which it lay
'Longside the road that runs my way

Whar I can see what's goin'.

And a'ter twelve o'clock had come
I felt a kinder faggin',

And laid myself un'neath a plum

To let my dinner settle sum,

When 'long come Jones's waggin,

And Jones was settin' in it, so :
A-readin' of a paper.

His mules was goin' powerful slow,
Fur he had tied the lines onto

The staple of the scraper.

The mules they stopped about a rod
From me, and went to feedin'
'Longside the road, upon the sod,
But Jones (which he had tuck a tod)
Not knowin', kept a-readin'.

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And presently says he : Hit's true;
That Clisby's head is level.

Thar's one thing farmers all must do,
To keep themselves from goin' tew
Bankruptcy and the devil!

"More corn! more corn! must plant less ground, And mustn't eat what's boughten!

Next year they'll do it: reasonin 's sound:
(And, cotton will fetch 'bout a dollar a pound),
Tharfore, I'll plant all cotton!"

MACON, GEORGIA, 1870.

THE POWER OF PRAYER; OR, THE FIRST

You,

STEAMBOAT UP THE ALABAMA.

BY SIDNEY AND CLIFFORD LANIER.

Dinah ! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does meet.

De Lord, He made dese black-jack roots to twis' into a seat. Umph, dar! De Lord have mussy on dis blin' ole nigger's

feet.

It 'pear to me dis mornin' I kin smell de fust o' June.

I 'clar', I b'lieve dat mockin'-bird could play de fiddle soon! Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin' in de

moon.

Well, ef dis nigger is been blind for fo'ty year or mo', Dese ears, dey sees the world, like, th'u' de cracks dat's in de do'.

For de Lord has built dis body wid de windows 'hind and 'fo'.

I know my front ones is stopped up, and things is sort o'

dim,

But den, th'u' dem, temptation's rain won't leak in on ole

Jim!

De back ones show me earth enough, aldo' dey's mons'ous

slim.

And as for Hebben,-bless de Lord, and praise His holy

name

Dat shines in all de co'ners of dis cabin jes' de same

As ef dat cabin hadn't nar' a plank upon de frame !

Who call me? Listen down de ribber, Dinah !

hyar

Don't you

Somebody holl'in' " Hoo, Fim, hoo?" My Sarah died las' y'ar;

Is dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim f'om hyar?

My stars, dat cain't be Sarah, shuh! Jes' listen, Dinah, now!
What kin be comin' up dat bend, a-makin' sich a row?
Fus' bellerin' like a pawin' bull, den squealin' like a sow?

De Lord 'a' mussy sakes alive, jes' hear,-ker-woof, kerwoof

De Debble's comin' round dat bend, he 's comin' shuh enuff, A-splashin' up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof!

I'se pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain't gwine run away:

I'm gwine to stand stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessed day. You screech, and swish de water, Satan! I'se a gwine to

pray.

O hebbenly Marster, what thou willest, dat mus' be jes' so, And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some nigger's bound to

go.

Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lef young Dinah hyar below!

'Scuse Dinah, 'scuse her, Marster; for she's sich a little chile, She hardly jes' begin to scramble up de homeyard stile, But dis ole traveller's feet been tired dis many a many a mile.

I'se wufless as de rotten pole of las' year's fodder-stack. De rheumatiz done bit my bones; you hear 'em crack and crack?

I cain'st sit down 'dout gruntin' like 'twas breakin' o' my

back.

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