“‘He’s gwine too fast fur de fus’ quarter,’ I sed, as I sot holdin’ my bref; but befo’ de wurds wuz out he seed it, too, an’ he check up er leetle, an’ he cum down es gently es de summer winds play—but er-gittin’ dar all de time!—an’ den he tell us how all dis art an’ all dis interlect wa’nt nuffin’ ef we didn’t lub God an’ do right an’ lib pure libes, an’ his voice wus lak de music ob de winds in de valley, an’ ebrything he say jes’ peer to be dat way an’ no argyment—and all de time he wuz jes’ er-gittin’ dar—an’ es he passed de fus’ quarter I cudden’t help it, I jes’ tuck out my ole watch an’ snapped it, an’ dar it stood—thirty seconds, holy Moses!
“But dat didn’t wind ’im, fur he started in de naixt quarter so fas’ I tho’t sho’ he gwine fly in de air. But he didn’t. He fairly burnt up de track ob sin an’ folly an’ littleness an’ meanness, an’ he made de leetle rail birds ob selfishness fly to de woods, an’ de touts ob scandal slunk erway, an’ de drivers of trick an’ cheat hunted fer ernuther track, an’ de timers of folly throwed erway dey watch—an’ all de time he wus er-gittin’ dar—an’ he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot nur missed his clip, an’ he made de ole high wheel sulky trimble all over lak er leaf in de storm, an’ he showed how ebrybody reap whut dey sow; how de artis’ lib in art, an’ de poit in poltry, an’ de patriot in de harts ob his countrymen, all arter dey dun dead an’ buried. An’ ‘Oh,’ he ses, so sarchin’ lak I see de folks trimble, ‘ef you lib fur de wurl you’ll die wid de wurl; but ef you lib fur God you’ll nurver die!’ An’ I cu’d see it all so plain an’ so quick an’ so terribul an’ so true I jes’ pulled out my ole timer ergin es he passed de ha’f, an’ click! dar she stood—59½!
“‘By de horn ob de tabbernacle,’ sez I, ‘he can’t keep up dat clip! Dat’s de ha’f dat burnt up Joe Patchen!’
“But I tell you, Boss, his name was P’inter—he had no noshun ob quittin’. He spun erlong on de straight stretches lak he had er runnin’ mate, an’ you’d wonder whut hilt ’im to de yearth. Den he ease up gently on de turns ob de track—whar he hit de doubters an’ de ’siety an’ de fools dat grasp at de bubbles ob wealth an’ folly on de ribber, an’ let de mighty stream wid all its depth an’ grandeur pass onnoticed to de ocean’—as he sed, he ease up dar an’ ketch his bref so gently lak, an’ sorrerful, you’d think he gwine stop an’ weep fur ’em, an’ you feel lak weepin’ yourse’f, fur yore own follies an’ de follies ob de wurl—but all de time he wus gittin’ dar!—an’ ef he did ease up es he went up de hill, it wus only jes’ long enuf ter let de light shine down on ’im frum heben, an’ he seemed ter linger jes’ er minnit in de sweetnes’ ob its glory.
“I wiped erway a tear an’ snapped my ole timer ergin—1:30½! ‘Dat’s good Baptis’ doctrine,’ sez I, ‘ef it am a trifle speedy. Lord, ef he do bust de recurd I hope you’ll gib ’im de Atlantic Ocean to spunge off in—sumpin’ in keepin’ wid his own nachur.’ An’ I sing sof’ly to myse’f dat good ole hymn, sung by Moses an’ de profets so long ergo:
Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name,
I’m Baptis’ till I die;
I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church,
Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie!
Hard trials,