Again he gets the waggon out,
An' hitches up the sorrels,
An' rides ten miles tew meetin', he
Ain't braced for pious quarrels:
No, sir, he ain't! that waggon rolls
From corduroy to puddle,
An' that thar farmer gets his brains
Inter an easy muddle.
His back is stiff from six days' toil—
So God takes hold an' preaches,
In boughs ov rustlin' maple an'
In whisperin' leaves ov beeches:
Sez He tew that thar farmin' chap
(Likewise tew the old woman),
"I guess I'm built tew comprehend
That you an' her be's human!"
"So jest take hold on this har day,
Recowperate yer muscle;
Let up a mite this day on toil,
'Taint made for holy bustle.
Let them old sorrels jog along,
With mighty slack-like traces;
Half dreamin', es my sunbeams fleck
Their venerable faces.
"I guess they did their share, ov work,
Since Monday's dew was hoary;
Don't try tew lick 'em tew a trot
Upon the road tew Glory!
Jest let 'em laze a spell whar thick
My lily-buds air blowin':
An' whar My trees cast shadders on
My silver creeklet flowin'.
"An' while their red, rough tongues push back
The stems ov reed an' lily,
Jest let 'em dream ov them thar days
When they was colt an' filly,
An' spekkleate, es fetlock deep
They eye my cool creek flowin',
On whar I loosed it from My hand,
Where be its crisp waves goin'.
An' how in snow-white lily cup
I built them yaller fires,
An' bronz'd them reeds that rustle up
Agin the waggon tires.
"An' throw a forrard eye along
Where that bush roadway passes,
A-spekkleating on the chance—
Ov nibbling road-side grasses.
Jest let them lines rest on thar necks—
Restrain yer moral twitters—
An' paste this note inside yer hat—
I talk tew all My critters!
"Be they on four legs or on two,
In broadcloth, scales or feathers,
No matter what may be the length
Ov all their mental tethers:
In ways mayn't suit the minds ov them
That thinks themselves thar betters.
I talk tew them in simple style,
In words ov just three letters,—
Spell'd out in lily-blow an' reed,
In soft winds on them blowin',
In juicy grass by wayside streams,
In coolin' waters flowin'.
"An' so jest let them sorrels laze
My ripplin' silver creek in;
They're listenin' in thar own dumb way,
An' I—Myself—am speakin';
Friend Stebbens, don't you feel your soul
In no sort ov dejection;
You'll get tew meetin' quick enough,
In time for the—collection."
THE DEACON AND HIS DAUGHTER.
He saved his soul and saved his pork,
With old time preservation;
He did not hold with creosote,
Or new plans of salvation;
He said that "Works would show the man,"
"The smoke-house tell upon the ham!"