Lars’ but not leas’, I ’specks Aunt Phillis sot at de melojin in de Lawd’s kitchen wid all Marster’s good an’ faithful serbents ’roun’ huh, an’ when Moses teck he rod an’ gib dat rod uh twiss, dey all included by singin’ togedda, de fo’f vus ub hym 473:
“He suvrin pow’r widout our aid
Made us ub clay [dar’s de application] an’ formed us men;
An’ when like wan’rin’ sheep we strayed,
He fotch us ter his fol’ ergen.”
Befo’ we sojourn I fogot ter renounce dat Mage Rudd say de keys ub de heb’nly organ wuz all made ub gole. Yistiddy I ax Mars Pinckney erboutin hit, an’ he say, “Sho’! Da wuz uh Key made ub gole dat writ uh gre’t an’ pow’ful song.” Think ub dat! I dunno what he mean ezac’ly, but I s’pose hit sompin in rebellation.
OLE MISS.
(Miss Henrietta.)
JUBA VINEY’S YALLER PANTS.
Flowers were fading. Roses, hyacinths, honeysuckle, buttercups and bluebells all gave “sigh for sigh.” ’Twas the last of summer—the hour when birds fly homeward to their nests, wandering bees seek their hives, chickens their roosts. ’Twas twilight, and its dews bathed the blooming clematis, climbing and caressing the latticed porch; a wooing breeze wafted its perfume through Otwell House, and awoke the waves on the slumbering river.