不,牧师,“锡箔不是我的风格,也没有机汇my relations) Tew dig about the gnarly roots Ov prophetic spekkleations, Tew see what Malachai meant; Or Solomon was hintin'; Or reound what jog o' Futur's road Isaiah was a-squintin'. I've lost my rest a-keepin' out The hogs from our cowcumbers; But never lost a wink, you bet, By wrastlin' over Numbers. I never took no comfort when The year was bald with losses, A-spekkleatin' on them chaps That rode them varus hosses. It never gave my soul a boost When grief an' it was matin', Tew figger out that that thar Pope Wus reely twins with Satan. I took no stock in countin' up How menny hed ov cattle From Egypt's ranches Moses drove; I never fit a battle On p'ints that frequently gave rise Tew pious spat an' grumble, An' makes the brethren clinch an' yell In spiritooal rough-an'-tumble. I never bet on Paul agin The argyments ov Peter, I never made the good old Book A kind ov moral teeter; Tew pass a choreless hour away, An' get the evenin' over; I swallered it jest as it stood, From cover clar tew cover. Hain't had no time tew disputate, Except with axe an' arm, With stump an' rampike and with stuns, Upon my half clar'd farm. An' when sech argyments as them-- Fill six days out ov seven; A man on Sabbath wants tew crawl By quiet ways tew heaven. Again he gets the waggon out, An' hitches up the sorrels, An' rides ten miles tew meetin', he Ain't braced for pious quarrels: No, sir, he ain't! that waggon rolls From corduroy to puddle, An' that thar farmer gets his brains Inter an easy muddle. His back is stiff from six days' toil-- So God takes hold an' preaches, In boughs ov rustlin' maple an' In whisperin' leaves ov beeches: Sez He tew that thar farmin' chap (Likewise tew the old woman), 'I guess I'm built tew comprehend That you an' her be's human!' 'So jest take hold on this har day, Recowperate yer muscle; Let up a mite this day on toil, 'Taint made for holy bustle. Let them old sorrels jog along, With mighty slack-like traces; Half dreamin', es my sunbeams fleck Their venerable faces. 'I guess they did their share, ov work, Since Monday's dew was hoary; Don't try tew lick 'em tew a trot Upon the road tew Glory! Jest let 'em laze a spell whar thick My lily-buds air blowin': An' whar My trees cast shadders on My silver creeklet flowin'. 'An' while their red, rough tongues push back The stems ov reed an' lily, Jest let 'em dream ov them thar days When they was colt an' filly, An' spekkleate, es fetlock deep They eye my cool creek flowin', On whar I loosed it from My hand, Where be its crisp waves goin'. An' how in snow-white lily cup I built them yaller fires, An' bronz'd them reeds that rustle up Agin the waggon tires. 'An' throw a forrard eye along Where that bush roadway passes, A-spekkleating on the chance-- Ov nibbling road-side grasses. Jest let them lines rest on thar necks-- Restrain yer moral twitters-- An' paste this note inside yer hat-- I talk tew all My critters! 'Be they on four legs or on two, In broadcloth, scales or feathers, No matter what may be the length Ov all their mental tethers: In ways mayn't suit the minds ov them That thinks themselves thar betters. I talk tew them in simple style, In words ov just three letters,-- Spell'd out in lily-blow an' reed, In soft winds on them blowin', In juicy grass by wayside streams, In coolin' waters flowin'. 'An' so jest let them sorrels laze My ripplin' silver creek in; They're listenin' in thar own dumb way, An' I--Myself--am speakin'; Friend Stebbens, don't you feel your soul In no sort ov dejection; You'll get tew meetin' quick enough, In time for the--collection.'