“‘I am a married man and not afraid to die.’”
I looked dretful cold at him; I hain’t no idee what he meant, if he meant anything, and he hastened to add—
“If they hain’t dum loonaticks and crazy as loons they’ll stay where they be,” sez he, in that same rhymin’ axent—
“They’ll stay right there in Jonesville, fair Jonesville on the Lyme.”
Sez I, “That hain’t poetry, Josiah.”
“Wall, it’s good solid horse sense, the hull of it, and the last line is poetry.”
Sez I, “One line don’t make poetry.” I wuz sorry I said it, for he turned his eyes up towards the ceilin’ in deep thought a minute, and then he kinder recited out in blank verse, or considerable blank, though it rhymed some—
“A leadin’ man of Jonesville lay dyin’ in—”
He hesitated for a minute, and seemed to be lookin’ round the room for a word, and finally his eye fell onto his feet—he had jest drawed his boot on agin, and I spoze the pain wuz fearful, but it seemed to gin him an idee—and he begun agin—
“A leadin’ man of Jonesville lay dyin’ in his boots,