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HEROIC.

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We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute

That ever fits us easy while we're in it;

Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,

Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth ten o' this;

An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told

Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold.

A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan

An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man;

Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy

Like dreamin' back along into a boy:

So the ole school'us' is a place I

choose

Afore all others, ef I want to muse;
I set down where I used to set, an'
git

My boyhood back, an' better things
with it,-

Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it isn't
Cherrity,

It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret
a rerrity.

Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath
arternoon

Thet I sot out to tramp myself in
tune,

I found me in the school'us' on my
seat,

Drummin' the march to No-wheres
with my feet.

Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole

folks say,

Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way:
It's thinkin' every thin' you ever
knew,

Or ever hearn, to make your feelins
blue.

I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell:
I thought o' the Rebellion, then o'
Hell,

Which some folks tell ye now is jes'
a metterfor,

(A the'ry, p'raps, it wun't feel none
the better for);

I thought o' Reconstruction, wut
we'd win

Patchin' our patent self-blow-up
agin:

I thought of this 'ere milkin' o' the
wits,

So

Ef

much a month, warn't givin'
Natur' fits,

folks warn't druv, findin' their

own milk fail,

To work the cow thet hes an iron tail,
An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the

pan

Would send up cream to humor ary

man:

From this to thet I let my worryin'

creep,

Till finally I must ha' fell asleep.

Our lives in sleep are some like
streams thet glide

'Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on
each side,

Where both shores' shadders kind
o' mix an' mingle

In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either
single;

An' when you cast off moorin's

from To-day,

An' down towards To-morrer drift
away,

The imiges thet tengle on the stream
Make a new upside-down'ard world
o' dream:

Sometimes they seem like sunrise-
streaks an' warnin's
O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-
mornin's,

An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o'
spite,

Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't
gone right.

I'm gret on dreams, an' often, when
I wake,

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We hain't to punish only, but to keep,

An' the cure's gut to go a cent❜ry deep."

"Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,"

Sez he, an' so you'll find before you're thru;

Ef reshness venters sunthin', shillyshally

Lozes ez often wut's ten times the vally.

Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split,

Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit:

Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the exe"

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"Our Charles," sez I, "hez gut eight million necks.

The hardest question ain't the black man's right,

The trouble is to 'mancipate the white;

One's chained in body an' can be sot free,

But t'other's chained in soul to an idee:

It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it;

Ef bag'nets fail, the spellin'-book must du it."

"Hosee," sez he, "I think you're goin' to fail:

The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail;

This 'ere rebellion's nothin' but the rettle,

You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle; Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head,

It's

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