He was six foot o' man, A1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton,
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells--
All is, he wouldn't love 'em.
But 'long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple;
The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir:
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.
An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.
That night, I tell ye, she looked _some!_
She seemed to've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.
She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-rasping on the scraper;
All ways at once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' loitered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle;
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But her'n went pity Zekle.
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