Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole

folks say,

Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: It's thinkin' every thin' you ever knew,

Or ever hearn, to make your feelins 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 jes' a metterfor,

(A the'ry, p'raps, it wun't feel none the better for);

I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win

Patchin' our patent self-blow-up agin:

I thought of this 'ere milkin' o' the wits,

So

Ef

much a month, warn't givin' Natur' fits,

folks warn't druv, findin' their own milk fail,

To work the cow thet hes an iron tail, An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the

pan

Would send up cream to humor ary

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 sperritrappin' some,

An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,

In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,'

own;

An' yit, ef 'tain'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 weathercock;

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 swordhilt forrard.)

66

Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I,

"Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,'

66

Sez he, an' so you'll find before you're thru;

Ef reshness venters sunthin', shillyshally

Lozes 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 exe"

"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,

A.D.;

An'

call it shoddy,

ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,

Whether man's thought can find too lofty steeps

For woman's scaling, care not I to know;

But when he falters by her side, or creeps,

She must not clog her soul with him to go.

Who weds me must at least with equal pace

Sometimes move with me at my being's height:

To follow him to his more glorious place,

His purer atmosphere, were keen delight.

You lure me to the valley: men should call

Up to the mountains, where the air is clear.

Win me and help me climbing, if at all!

Beyond these peaks rich harmonies I hear,