Listen to him ba’kin now! 
      Dat means bus’ness, sho ’s you bo’n;
    Ef he’s struck de scent I ’low
      Dat ere ’possum’s sholy gone. 
    Knowed dat dog fu’ fo’teen yeahs,
      An’ I nevah seed him fail
    Wen he sot dem flappin’ eahs
      An’ went off upon a trail. 
  Run, Mistah ‘Possum, an’ run, Mistah Coon,
    No place is safe fu’ yo’ ramblin’ to-night;
  Mas’ gin’ de lantu’n an’ God gin de moon,
    An’ a long hunt gins a good appetite.

    Look hyeah, folks, you hyeah dat change? 
      Dat ba’k is sha’per dan de res’. 
    Dat ere soun’ ain’t nothin’ strange,—­
      Dat dog’s talked his level bes’. 
    Somep’n’ ‘s treed, I know de soun’. 
      Dah now,—­wha ’d I tell you? see! 
    Dat ere dog done run him down;
      Come hyeah, he’p cut down dis tree. 
  Ah, Mistah ’Possum, we got you at las’—­
    Need n’t play daid, laying dah on de groun’;
  Fros’ an’ de ’simmons has made you grow fas’,—­
    Won’t he be fine when he’s roasted up brown!

A LETTER

  Dear Miss Lucy:  I been t’inkin’ dat I ‘d write you long fo’ dis,
  But dis writin’ ‘s mighty tejous, an’ you know jes’ how it is. 
  But I ‘s got a little lesure, so I teks my pen in han’
  Fu’ to let you know my feelin’s since I retched dis furrin’ lan’. 
  I ’s right well, I ’s glad to tell you (dough dis climate ain’t to blame),
  An’ I hopes w’en dese lines reach you, dat dey ‘ll fin’ yo’ se’f de same. 
  Cose I ‘se feelin kin’ o’ homesick—­dat ’s ez nachul ez kin be,
  Wen a feller ’s mo’n th’ee thousand miles across dat awful sea. 
  (Don’t you let nobidy fool you ‘bout de ocean bein’ gran’;
  If you want to see de billers, you jes’ view dem f’om de lan’.)
  ‘Bout de people?  We been t’inkin’ dat all white folks was alak;
  But dese Englishmen is diffunt, an’ dey ‘s curus fu’ a fac’. 
  Fust, dey’s heavier an’ redder in dey make-up an’ dey looks,
  An’ dey don’t put salt nor pepper in a blessed t’ing dey cooks! 
  Wen dey gin you good ol’ tu’nips, ca’ots, pa’snips, beets, an’ sich,
  Ef dey ain’t some one to tell you, you cain’t ’stinguish which is which. 
  Wen I t’ought I ‘s eatin’ chicken—­you may b’lieve dis hyeah ’s a lie—­
  But de waiter beat me down dat I was eatin’ rabbit pie. 
  An’ dey ‘d t’ink dat you was crazy—­jes’ a reg’lar ravin’ loon,
  Ef you ’d speak erbout a ‘possum or a piece o’ good ol’ coon. 
  O, hit’s mighty nice, dis trav’lin’, an’ I ‘s kin’ o’ glad I come. 
  But, I reckon, now I ‘s willin’ fu’ to tek my way back home. 
  I done see de Crystal Palace, an’ I ’s hyeahd dey string-band play,
  But I has n’t seen no banjos layin’ nowhahs roun’ dis way. 
  Jes’ gin ol’ Jim Bowles a banjo, an’ he ‘d not go very fu’,
  ‘Fo’ he ’d outplayed all dese fiddlers, wif dey flourish and dey stir.