THE RIVALS

    Look heah!  Is I evah tole you ’bout de curious way I won
    Anna Liza?  Say, I nevah?  Well heah’s how de thing wuz done.

    Lize, you know, wuz mighty purty—­dat’s been forty yeahs ago—­
    ’N ’cos to look at her dis minit, you might’n spose dat it wuz so.

    She wuz jes de greates’ ’traction in de county, ‘n bless de lam’! 
    Eveh darkey wuz a-co’tin, but it lay ‘twix me an’ Sam.

    You know Sam.  We both wuz wukin’ on de ole John Tompkin’s place. 
    ‘N evehbody wuz a-watchin’ t’see who’s gwine to win de race.

    Hee! hee! hee!  Now you mus’ raley ‘scuse me fu’ dis snickering,
    But I jes can’t he’p f’om laffin’ eveh time I tells dis thing.

    Ez I wuz a-sayin’, me an’ Sam wuked daily side by side,
    He a-studyin’, me a-studyin’, how to win Lize fu’ a bride.

    Well, de race was kinder equal, Lize wuz sorter on de fence;
    Sam he had de mostes dollars, an’ I had de mostes sense.

    Things dey run along ‘bout eben tel der come Big Meetin’ day;
    Sam den thought, to win Miss Liza, he had foun’ de shoest way.

    An’ you talk about big meetin’s!  None been like it ’fore nor sence;
    Der wuz sich a crowd o’ people dat we had to put up tents.

    Der wuz preachers f’om de Eas’, an’ ‘der wuz preachers f’om de Wes’;
    Folks had kilt mos’ eveh chicken, an’ wuz fattenin’ up de res’.

    Gals had all got new w’ite dresses, an’ bought ribbens fu’ der hair,
    Fixin’ fu’ de openin’ Sunday, prayin’ dat de day’d be fair.

    Dat de Reveren’ Jasper Jones of Mount Moriah, it wuz ’low’d,
    Wuz to preach de openin’ sermon; so you know der wuz a crowd.

    Fu’ dat man wuz sho a preacher; had a voice jes like a bull;
    So der ain’t no use in sayin’ dat de meetin’ house wuz full.

    Folks wuz der f’om Big Pine Hollow, some come ’way f’om Muddy Creek,
    Some come jes to stay fu’ Sunday, but de crowd stay’d thoo de week.

    Some come ridin’ in top-buggies wid de w’eels all painted red,
    Pulled by mules dat run like rabbits, each one tryin’ to git ahead.

    Othah po’rer folks come drivin’ mules dat leaned up ‘ginst de shaf’,
    Hitched to broke-down, creaky wagons dat looked like dey’d drap in half.

    But de bigges’ crowd come walkin’, wid der new shoes on der backs;
    ’Scuse wuz dat dey couldn’t weah em ‘cause de heels wuz full o’ tacks.

    Fact is, it’s a job for Job, a-trudgin’ in de sun an’ heat,
    Down a long an’ dusty clay road wid yo’ shoes packed full o’ feet.

    ‘Cose dey stopt an’ put dem shoes on w’en dey got mos’ to de do’;
    Den dey had to grin an’ bear it; dat tuk good religion sho.

    But I mos’ forgot ma story,—­well at las’ dat Sunday came
    And it seemed dat evehbody, blin’ an’ deef, an’ halt an’ lame,