a T,
  An’ the wind settles wut the weather ’ll be-”—­
  “I never thought a scion of our stock
  Could grow the wood to make a weathercock;
  When I wuz younger ’n you, skurce more ’n a shaver,
  No airthly wind,” sez he, “could make me waver!”
  (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an’ forehead,
  Hitchin’ his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)—­
  “Jes’ so it wuz with me,” sez I, “I swow,
  When I wuz younger ’n wut you see me now,—­
  Nothin’, from Adam’s fall to Huldy’s bonnet,
  Thet I warn’t full-cocked with my jedgement on it;
  But now I’m gittin’ on in life, I find
  It’s a sight harder to make up my mind,—­
  Nor I don’t often try tu, when events
  Will du it for me free of all expense. 
  The moral question’s ollus plain enough,—­
  It’s jes’ the human-natur’ side thet’s tough;
  Wut’s best to think mayn’t puzzle me nor you,—. 
  The pinch comes in decidin’ wut to du;
  Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
  Coz there the men ain’t nothin more ’n idees,—­
  But come to make it, ez we must to-day,
  Th’ idees hev arms an’ legs an’ stop the way: 
  It’s easy fixin’ things in facts an’ figgers,—­
  They can’t resist, nor warn’t brought up with niggers;
  But come to try your the’ry on,—­why, then
  Your facts an’ figgers change to ign’ant men
  Actin’ ez ugly”——­“Smite ’em hip an’ thigh!”
  Sez gran’ther, “an’ let every man-child die! 
  Oh for three weeks o’ Crommle an’ the Lord! 
  O Israel, to your tents an’ grind the sword!”—­
  “Thet kind o’ thing worked wal in ole Judee,
  But yon forgit how long It’s ben A.D.;
  You think thet’s ellerkence,—­I call it shoddy,
  A thing,” sez I, “wun’t cover sonl nor body;
  I like the plain all-wool o’ common-sense,
  Thet warms ye now, an’ will a twelvemonth hence.
  You took to follerin’ where the Prophets beckoned,
  An’, fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
  Now wut I want’s to hev all we gain stick,
  An’ not to start Millennium too quick;
  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 a good cement,”
  Sez he, “an’ so you ‘ll find it in th’ event;
  Ef reshness venters sunthin’, shilly-shally
  Loses 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,”—­
  “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,—­
  The 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 do it.”—­
  “Hosee,” sez he, “I