In this our age of printer's ink,
"Tis books that show us how to think-
The rule reversed, and set at naught,
That held that books were born of thought;
We form our minds by pedants' rules;
And all we know, is from the schools;
And when we work, or when we play,
We do it in an ordered way-
And Nature's self pronounce a ban on,
Whene'er she dares transgress a canon.
Untrammeled thus, the simple race is,
That "works the craps" on cotton-places!
Original in act and thought,
Because unlearnéd and untaught,
Observe them at their Christmas party.
How unrestrained their mirth-how hearty!
How many things they say and do,
That never would occur to you!
See Brudder Brown-whose saving grace
Would sanctify a quarter-race-
Out on the crowded floor advance,
To "beg a blessin' on dis dance."
O Mahsr! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight! Don't jedge us hard for what we does—you knows it's Chrismus night;
An' all de balunce ob de yeah, we does as right's we kin—
Ef dancin's wrong--oh, Mahsr! let de time excuse de sin!
We labors in de vineya'd-workin' hard, an' workin' true-
Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or two,
An' takes a leetle holiday--a leetle restin'-spell-
Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labor twicet as well.
Remember, Mahsr-min' dis, now-de sinfulness ob sin
Is pendin' 'pon de sperret what we goes an' does it in:
An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing;
A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing.
it seems to me-indeed it do~I mebbe mout be wrong-
That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along;
Des dance bekase dey's happy-like de birds hops in de trees:
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin' ob de breeze.
We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king; We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing; But cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knows→→ An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it aint de rose.
You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to night;
Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n' ef we 's doin' right;
An' let de blessin' stay wid us, untell we comes to die,
An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky!
Yes, tell dem preshis anjuls we 's a-gwine to jine 'em soon:
Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune;
We's ready when you wants us, an' it aint no matter when-
O Mahsr! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home! Amen,
The rev'rend man is scarcely through,
When all the noise begins anew,
And with such force assaults the ears,
That through the din one hardly hears
Old Fiddling Josey "sound his A"-
Correct the pitch-begin to play--
Stop, satisfied-then, with the bow,
Rap out the signal dancers know:
Git yo' pardners, fust kwattilion!
Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high;
Tune is: "Oh! dat water-million!
Gwine to git to home bime-bye."
S'lute yo' pardners!-scrape perlitely-
Don't be bumpin' gin de res'-
Balance all!-now, step out rightly;
Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'.
Fo'wa'd foah!-whoop up, niggers!
Back ag'in!-don't be so slow-
Swing cornahs!-min' de figgers:
When I hollers, den yo' go.
Top ladies cross ober!
Hol' on, till I takes a dram-
Gemmen solo!-yes, I's sober-
Kaint say how de fiddle am—
Hands around!-hol' up yo' faces,
Don't be lookin' at yo' feet!
Swing yo' pardners to yo' places!
Dat's de way-dat 's hard to beat.
Sides fo'w'd!-when you's ready-
Make a bow as low's you kin!
Swing acrost wid opp'site lady!
Now we'll let you swap ag'in:
Ladies change!--shet up dat talkin':
Do yo' talkin' arter while-
Right an' lef'!-don't want no walkin'
Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style!
And so the "set" proceeds--its length
Determined by the dancers' strength;
And all agreed to yield the palm
For grace and skill, to "Georgy Sam,"
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high,
Des watch him!" is the wond'ring cry-
"De nigger mus' be, for a fac',
Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack!"
On, on, the restless fiddle sounds-
Still chorused by the curs and hounds-
Dance after dance succeeding fast,
Till "supper" is announced at last.
That scene-but why attempt to show it?
The most inventive modern poet,
In fine new words whose hope and trust is,
Could form no phrase to do it justice!
When supper ends-that is not soon-
The fiddle strikes the same old tune;
The dancers pound the floor again,
With all they have of might and main;
Old gossips, almost turning pale,
Attend Aunt Cassy's gruesome tale
Of conjurors, and ghosts, and devils,
That in the smoke-house hold their revels;
Each drowsy baby droops its head,
Yet scorns the very thought of bed:--
So wears the night; and wears so fast,
All wonder when they find it passed,
And hear the signal sound, to go,
From what few cocks are left to crow.
Then, one and all, you hear them shout:
"Hi! Booker! fotch de banjo out,
An' gib us one song 'fore we goes-
One ob de berry bes' you knows!"
Responding to the welcome call,
He takes the banjo from the wall,
And tunes the strings with skill and care-
Then strikes them with a master's air;
And tells, in melody and rhyme,
This legend of the olden time:
Go 'way fiddle!-folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin',
Keep silence fur yo' betters--don't you heah de banjo talkin'?
About de 'possum's tail, she's gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!-
About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':
"Dar 's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn-
For Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column-
An' so he sot his hands to work a-cl'arin' timber-patches, An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamieh 66 Natchez."
Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-chippin', an' a-sawin';
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em-knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen:
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es-
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle-
An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder
rattle.
Den sech anoder fall ob rain!-it come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out-'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat-an' one to mix de bitters.
De Ark she kep' a-sailin', an' a-sailin', an' a-sailin';
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'--
De sarpints hissed-de painters yelled—tell, what wid all de fussin',
You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'. Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket; An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made-de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge, an' screws, an' apron;
An' fitted in a proper neck--'twuz berry long an' tap'rin'; He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble for to ring it; An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?
De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'rs so long, an thick, an strong,-des fit for banjostringin';
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, frum little E's to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,-'twuz “Nebber min' de wedder "
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; Some went to pattin'; some to dancin'; Noah called de figgers
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!
Now, sence dat time--it's mighty strange--dere's not de slightes' showin'
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin';
An' curi's, too,-dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los'
For whar you finds de nigger-dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!
The night is spent; and as the day
Throws up the first faint flash of gray,
The guests pursue their homeward way;
And through the field beyond the gin,
Just as the stars are going in,
See Santa Claus departing-grieving-
His own dear Land of Cotton leaving.
His work is done-he fain would rest,
Where people know and love him best-
He pauses-listens-looks about-
But go he must: his pass is out;
So, coughing down the rising tears,
He climbs the fence and disappears.
And thus observes a colored youth--
(The common sentiment, in sooth):
"Oh! what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been,
Ef Santy had been born a twin!
We'd hab two Chrismuses a yeah-
Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah'!"
GUALBERTO'S VICTORY.-ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.
A mountain pass so narrow that a man
Riding that way to Florence, stooping, can
Touch with his hand the rocks on either side,
And pluck the flowers that in the crannies hide.
Here, on Good Friday, centuries ago,
"Mounted and armed, John Gualbert met his foe;
Mounted and armed as well, but riding down
To the fair city from the woodland brown,
This way and that, swinging his jeweled whip,
A gay old love-song on his careless lip,
And on his charger's neck the reins loose thrown.
An accidental meeting; but the sun
Burned on their brows, as if it had been one
Of deep design, so deadly was the look
Of mutual hate their olive faces took;
As (knightly courtesy forgot in wrath,)
Neither would yield his enemy the path.
"Back!" cried Gualberto. "Never!" yelled his foe; 1 And on the instant, sword in hand, they throw
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