Would I? I gave the old man another dose of the heaven-brewed to help him along.
“Wal, hit’s about de cu-isest feelin’ dat eber was felt,” he said, after awhile. “One minnit you am libin’ an’ de nex’ you am trablin’ ’long de road to Jurdan, an’ you can’t he’p yo’self to save yo’ life. You can’t stop, you can’t sot down, you can’t turn back. You jes’ seem to be drawed along like you was standin’ on a slidin’ sidewalk run on undergroun’ cables. But de road is buterful. Flowers bloom all aroun’ you. Birds sing in de sunshine on gold trees, an’ fishes swim in lakes of melted di’monds. Inste’d of bein’ outdoors an’ breathin’ air, you ’peer to be movin’ along under de bright roof ob a cut-glass house, or in a big bottle ob rarerfied perfume, wid de sun a blazin’ stopper in de roof.
“I didn’t kno’ whar I wus gwine to, an’ I didn’t keer—all I know’ wus I wus gwine, thang Gord!
“But, bimeby, everthing stop whar two roads met, an’ I know’d one of ’em went to heab’n, but I cudn’t say which one to save my life. I got down on my knees, an’ prayed fur light, but no light cum, an’ ’stid of it I heurd all de little birds singin’ in de gold trees all aroun’ me:
“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,
An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,
No use fur to pray in de nex’.’
“Dat mos’ par’lyze me, boss, an’ I’d a gi’n ennything ef I hadn’t spent so much time aroun’ race-tracks whilst I wus alive an’ had spent mo’ of it lookin’ for dis heah track, an’ tryin’ to fin’ out which road to take. Dar dey bofe lay, jes’ alike, shinin’ in de glow of eternity. An’ yit de very silence seem ter speak in thunder-tones, an’ de stillness was louder dan de noise of battle. It all depended on de path I tuck.
“Bimeby, I thort of Ole Marster’s little boy dat I seed die so long ago, an’ dat I useter nuss an’ carry in my arms, an’ of all de little chillun I seed bohn one day, an’ die de nex’, an’ I got down on my knees in de golden dust ob dat ’ar road an’ I look fur ter see if dar was enny baby tracks dar, fur I knowed whar de baby tracks wus, dat wus de road dat leads to heab’n.”
The old man stopped, and I saw him brush away a tear. He had said something as great as Shakespeare, and I, myself, had to take a turn around the room to stop before the picture of a little curly-head over the mantel, and listen again for the prattle of a laughter which began one spring with a bird’s note and ended with the first snow in a new-made grave.