JOSIAH had to go to Shackville with a hemlock saw log that day, so he went off most imegiatly after Cousin John Richard departed.

And I resoomed the occupation I had laid down for the last week, and did a big day’s work, with Philury’s help, a cleanin’ house.

But I had a good warm supper when my companion returned. I always will, work or no work, have meals on time, and good ones too—though I oughtn’t to boast over such doin’s.

We had cleaned the kitchen that day, papered it all over new and bright, and put down three breadths of a new rag carpet, acrost the west end.

And I had put up some pretty new curtains of cream-colored and red cheese cloth, one breadth of each to a winder, and looped ’em back with some red lute-string ribbon.

And I had hung my canary-cage in between the two south winders, over the stand of house plants; and the plants had done dretful well, they wuz in full blow.

And then I brung in the two big easy-chairs covered with handsome new copper plate—one for Josiah and one for me.

And when I had set the supper-table, covered with a snowy cloth, in front of the south winders, the place looked well. We had took the carpet up in the dinin’ room and had to set the table there. But it looked well enough for anybody.

And havin’ had Philury to do the heaviest of the work, I didn’t feel so very beat out, and I changed my dress and sot quiet and peaceful and very calm in my frame a waitin’ for my companion, while the grateful odor of broiled chicken, and cream biscuit, and the rich coffee riz up and permeated the room.

Josiah duz love a cup of hot, fragrant coffee with cream into it when he has been to work in the cold all day. And it wuz quite cold for the time of year.

Wall, I had put on a good new gingham dress and a white apron, and I had a lace ruffle round my neck; and though I hain’t vain, nor never wuz called so, only by the envious, still I knew I looked well.

And I could read this truth in my companion’s eyes as he come home cold and cross and hungry—come into that warm, pleasant room and into the presence of his devoted pardner.

At once and imegiatly his cares, his crossness, and his troubled mean dropped from him like a garment he wuz tired of, and he felt well.

And his appetite was good—excellent.

And it wuzn’t till after the dishes wuz all washed up, and we wuz a settin’ on each side of the stand, which had a bright cloth and a clean lamp on it, I with my knittin’ work and he with his World, that he resoomed and took up the conversation about Cousin John Richard’s beliefs.

And I see, jest what I had seen, that as well as he liked John Richard, that worthy creeter had not convinced him; and he even felt inclined, now the magnetism of his presence wuz withdrawn, to pow at his earnest beliefs and sentiments.

I waved off Josiah’s talk; I tried to evade his eloquence (or what he called eloquence). For somehow John Richard’s talk had made more impression onto me than it had onto Josiah, and I could not bear to hear the cherished beliefs of that good man set all to naut.

So I tried to turn off Josiah’s attention by allusions to the tariff, the calves, the national debt, to Ury’s new suit of clothes, to the washboard, to Tirzah Ann’s married life, and to the excellencies and beauties of our two little granddaughters Babe and Snow—Tirzah Ann’s and Thomas Jefferson’s little girls.

But though this last subject wuz like a shinin’ bait, and he ketched on it and hung there for some time, a descantin’ on the rare excellencies of them two wonderful children, yet anon, or nearly so, he wriggled away from that glitterin’ bait and swung back to the subject that he had heard descanted on so powerfully the night John Richard come.

And in spite of all my nearly frenzied but peaceful efforts—for when he wuz so tired and beat out I wouldn’t use voyalence—he would resoom the subject.

And sez he for the third or fourth time:

“John Richard is a crackin’ good feller—they most all of ’em are that are on my side—but for all that I don’t believe a word of what he said about the South.”

I kep’ demute, and wouldn’t say what I did believe or what I didn’t, for I felt tired some myself; and I felt if he insisted and went on, I should be led into arguin’ with him.

For Cousin John Richard’s talk had fell into meller ground in my brain, and I more than mistrusted it wuz a springin’ up there onbeknown to me.

Josiah Allen and I never did, and I spoze never will, think alike about things, and I am fur more mejum than he is.

And then he sort o’ satisfies himself by lookin’ at one side of a idee, while I always want to walk round it and see what is on the other side on it, and turn it over and see what is under it, etc., etc.

But anon he bust out agin, and his axent was one that must be replied to; I felt it wouldn’t do to ignore it any longer.

Sez he, “I am dead sick of all this talk about the Race Problem.”

“Then why,” sez I, mildly but firmly, “why do you insist on talkin’ on it?”

“I want to tell you my feelin’s,” sez he.

Sez I, “I know ’em, Josiah Allen.”

And then I sot demute, and hoped I had averte the storm—or, ruther, I would call it the squall, for I didn’t expect a hard tempest, more of a drizzle.

So I knit fast, and sot in hope.

But anon he begun agin:

“I am sick on’t. I believe more’n half the talk is for effect. I don’t believe the South is a bleedin’; I hain’t seen no blood. I don’t believe the niggers are a rizen, I hain’t seen ’em a gettin’ up. I believe it is all folderol.”

And then I sez, a lookin’ up from my knittin’ work:

“Be mejum, Josiah Allen; you don’t live there. You hain’t so good a judge as if you lived in the South; you hain’t so good a judge as John Richard is, for he has lived right there.”

And he snapped out real snappish:

“Wall, there is lots of places I never lived in, hain’t there? But anybody can know sunthin’, whether they live anywhere or not.”

But I kep’ on real mejum and a talkin’ deep reason, I know well.

“When anybody is a passin’ through deep waters, Josiah Allen, they can feel the cold waves and the chill as nobody can who is on dry land.”

And then Josiah said them inflammatory words agin that he had hurled at the head of John Richard, and that had gaulded him so. He sez in a loud, defiant axent, “Oh shaw!”

And I sez, “You hain’t there, Josiah Allen, and you hain’t so well qualified to shaw, and shaw accordin’ to principle, as if you wuz there.”

“Wall, I say, and contend for it,” sez he, almost hotly, “that there is too much dumb talk. Why don’t the niggers behave themselves, and why don’t the Southerners treat ’em as I treat Ury?

“Ury has worked for me upwards of seven years, and he hain’t riz, has he? And I hain’t been a howlin’ at him, and a whippin’ him, and a shootin’ at him, and a ridin’ him out on a rail, and a burnin’ him to the stake if he wouldn’t vote me in President; and he hain’t been a massecreein’ us, not that I have ever hearn on, or a rapinin’ round, and I hain’t rapined Philury, have I?

“If there is any truth in these stories, why don’t the South foller on and do as I do? That would end their troubles to once.

“Let the Southerners act as I do, and the niggers act like Ury, and that would end up the Race Problem pretty sudden.”

Sez I, in pretty lofty axents, for I begun to feel eloquent and by the side of myself, “How many generations has it took to make you honest and considerate, and Ury faithful and patient? How long has it took, Josiah Allen?”

“Why, about seven years or thereabouts. He come in the middle of winter, and now it is spring.”

Sez I, “It has took hundreds and hundreds of years, Josiah Allen.”

And I went on more noble and deep:

“Ury’s parents and grandparents, and back as fur as he knows, wuz good, hard-workin’, honest men—so wuz yours. You are both the children of freedom and liberty. You haven’t been saddled with a burden of ignorance and moral and physical helplessness and want. He has no lurid background of abuse and wrongs and arrogance to inflame his fevered fancies.

“You might as well say that you could gather as good grain down in your old swamp that has never been tilled sence the memory of man, as you can in your best wheat field, that has been ploughed, and harrowed, and enriched for year after year.

“The old swamp can be made to yield good grain, Josiah Allen, but it has got to be burned over, and drained, and ploughed, and sown with good grain.

“There is a Hand that is able to do this, Josiah Allen. And,” sez I, lookin’ off some distance beyend him and Jonesville, “there is a Hand that I believe is a dealin’ with that precious soil in which saints and heroes are made, and where the beauteous flower of freedom blows out.

“Has not the South been ploughed with the deep plough of God’s purpose—burned with the lightnin’ of His own meanin’, enriched with the blood of martyrs and heroes? Has not the cries of His afflicted ones rose to the heavens while onbeknown to ’em the chariot of Freedom wuz marchin’ down towards the Red Sea, to go ahead on ’em through the dretful sea of bloodshed and tribulations, while the black clouds of battle riz up and hid the armies of Slavery and Freedom, hid the oppressors and the oppressed?

“But the sea opened before ’em, and they passed through on dry land.

“Now they are encamped in the wilderness, and the tall, dark shapes of Ignorance and Hereditary Weakness and Vice are a stalkin’ along by their sides, and coverin’ ’em with their black shadows. The stumps are thick in their way. The old trees of Custom and Habit, though their haughty tops may have been cut off a little by the lightnin’ of war, yet the black, solid, onbroken stumps stand thick in their way—so thick they can’t force their way through ’em—and the black mud of Open Enmity, and Arrogance, and Prejudice is on one side of ’em, and on the other the shiftin’, treacherous quicksands of Mistaken Counsel.

“Their way is blocked up, and the light is dim over their heads. Religion and Education is the light that is goin’ ahead on ’em; but that piller of fire is some ways ahead of ’em, and its rays are hindered by the branchin’ shadows over their heads. And who will be the Moses to lead ’em out of this wilderness into their own land?”

I wuz almost entirely by the side of myself with deep emotions of pity and sympathy and a desire to help ’em, and I felt riz up, too, in my mind—awful riz up—and I spoke out agin, entirely onbeknown to myself:

“Who will be the Moses to lead ’em into the Promised Land?”

“Wall, it won’t be me,” sez Josiah. “I am goin’ out to bed down the horses.”

I wuz took aback, and brung down too sudden from the Mount of Eloquence I had been standin’ on.

And I put on my nightcap and went to bed.

Now, I don’t spoze you would believe it—most anybody wouldn’t—but the very next mornin’ Josiah Allen resoomed and took up that conversation agin, that I fondly hoped he had thrown down for good when he so suddenly departed to the horse barn.

But if you can believe it, before I got breakfast ready, while he was a wipin’ his hands to the sink on the roller towel, he broke out agin as fresh seemingly in debate as ever.

If I had mistrusted it ahead I should have made extra preparation for breakfast, for the purpose of quellin’ him down, but I hadn’t dreamed of his resoomin’ it agin; and I only got my common run of brekfasses, though it wuz very good and appetizin’.

I had some potatoes warmed up in cream, and some lamb-chops broiled brown and yet juicy, some hot muffins light as a feather, and some delicious coffee—it wuz good enough for a King or a Zar—but then it wuzn’t one of my choice efforts, for principle’s sake, which I often have to make in the cookin’ line, and—good land!—which every other human woman has to make who has a man to deal with.

We can’t vote, and we have to do sunthin’ or other to get our own way.

Wall, as I wuz a sayin’, he broke out anew, and sez he:

“I am sick as a dog of all this talk about the Race Problem.”

And then agin I uttered them wise words I had spoken the night before; they wuz jest heavy with wisdom if he had only known it; and sez I:

“What makes you keep a bringin’ it up, then and a talkin’ about it?”

And agin he sez, “He done it to let me know how he felt about it.”

And agin I sez, “I knew it before.”

And I silently but smoothly poured my sweet cream over my sliced potatoes, and turned my lamb-chops and drawed my coffee forwards so it would come to a bile.

And he repeated, “I believe in lettin’ things alone that don’t consarn us; it hain’t none of our bizness.”

And seein’ he wuz bound on talkin’ on it, why, I felt a feelin’ that I must roust up and set him right where I see he wuz wrong; I see it was my duty as a devoted pardner. And so, after we had got down to the table, and he sez agin in more powerful and even high-headed axents, “that it wuz none of our bizness,” then I spunked up and sez, “It seems to me, Josiah Allen, that the cause of eternal truth is always our bizness.”

“Oh, wall! it hain’t best to meddle; that is my idee, and that is my practice. Don’t you know that when Ury had that fight with Sam Shelmadine, I said I wouldn’t either make nor break? I said I won’t meddle, and I didn’t meddle. It wuzn’t my bizness.”