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"Birds gived awver singin', Flittermice was wingin', Mists lay on the meadows A purty sight to see. Down-long in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy, Down-long in the dimpsy Theer went a maid wi' me. "Five gude mile o' walkin', Not wan word o' talkin', Then I axed a question And put the same to she.
"There was Peg Barney sittin' on the groun' in his shirt wan shoe off an' wan shoe on whackin' a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an' singin' fit to wake the dead. 'Twas no clane song that he sung, though. 'Twas the Divil's Mass." "What's that?" I asked.
If yo' jest occerpy yo'r eyes and ears, yo' hear mostly only a ocean roar uv singin', a brayin' uv trumpets, a clashin' uv cymbals, a beatin' uv drums, with ther soft strains uv viols, harps 'nd flutes, and not much music. Ef yo' set yo'r mind workin' ter foller ther myths outer which ther story of the opera war made, then ther tones become voices, 'nd ther music only tells er story.
Sometimes, when I think of it, it makes me sorry that I didn't show the Old Man some way how much I wuz wrapped up in him. Used to hold him in my lap 'nd make faces for him 'nd alder whistles 'nd things; sometimes I'd kiss him on his rosy cheek, when nobody wuz lookin'; oncet I tried to sing him a song, but it made him cry, 'nd I never tried my hand at singin' again.
She sold to de master who was de highes bidder, and den I saw her comin down de road singin 'I done got a home at las!. She was half crazy. De maste he sole her and den Mrs. buy her back. They lef her work around de house. I used to make her work and make her shine things. She say I make her shine too much, but she haff crazy, an run away." "No dey didn help colored folks read and write.
"No wonder, with that great boy, and all she does. Aunt Low-ize tried to hold him, jest while Vesty was singin', an' she had to take him out and walk twict around Blueberry Hill t' keep him still; he's one o' this 'ere all-alive, jumpin' kind. I sh'd think he'd kill her." I overtook Vesty in the lane; she was gathering flowers in Sunday pastime for the baby.
"Horrid aggressive, ain't we?" said Pigeon with a chuckle when we moved on again and overtook the main body. Here I caught the strains of the band, which Pigeon told me did not accompany the battalion on 'heef, but lived in barracks and made much money by playing at parties in town. "If we want anything more than drums and fifes on 'heef' we sing," said Pigeon. "Singin' helps the wind."
He begun you see I was next to him an' could ketch ev'ry word, although thar was jest a regular hullabaloo o' shoutin' an' singin' goin' on all about he begun by goin' over his own family trouble, an' I wanted to laugh out, fer the Lord knows, while Brother Tim's folks has had some few ordinary reverses, an' did lose a few head o' stock in the war, an' one o' the gals married a no-'count Yankee carpenter an' never would write back home, an' Brother Mitchell's ma an' pa died uv ripe old age but, as I say, nobody ever thought they wus particular unfortunate.
Ye'll do finely t' lead the singin'. But I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at his gran' favright Adam Bede a-turnin' Methody." "Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are though it's like enough you'll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle wi' people's doing as they like in religion.
In another instant, he would be on his way to bed; the Widder knew she must waste no time in hurt silence, if she meant to find out anything. She began hastily, "Did they say anything about the, church fair?" "They ain't goin' to have it." "Not have it! Well, how be they goin' to git the shinglin' paid for?" "They've got up the idee of an Old Folks' Concert." "Singin'?" "Singin' an' playin'."
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