And then he sort o’ satisfies himself by lookin’ at one side of a idee, while I always want to walk round it and see what is on the other side on it, and turn it over and see what is under it, etc., etc.
But anon he bust out agin, and his axent was one that must be replied to; I felt it wouldn’t do to ignore it any longer.
Sez he, “I am dead sick of all this talk about the Race Problem.”
“Then why,” sez I, mildly but firmly, “why do you insist on talkin’ on it?”
“I want to tell you my feelin’s,” sez he.
Sez I, “I know ’em, Josiah Allen.”
And then I sot demute, and hoped I had averted the storm—or, ruther, I would call it the squall, for I didn’t expect a hard tempest, more of a drizzle.
So I knit fast, and sot in hope.
But anon he begun agin:
“I am sick on’t. I believe more’n half the talk is for effect. I don’t believe the South is a bleedin’; I hain’t seen no blood. I don’t believe the niggers are a rizen, I hain’t seen ’em a gettin’ up. I believe it is all folderol.”