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Updated: May 4, 2025
"You mustn't talk like that," cried Sam, distressed. "You mustn't give up." Musq'oosis smiled. "Not givin' up w'en old man die," he returned. "I lak live ver' well. I lak the summer an' the winter. Mos' of all I lak my big lak. I lak smooth and rough. I lak the green shore and the round bays and the little rivers that come down. It is a good worl'. But I lak leave it now.
Dere's no shadows in de home thou makes, fer 'de light of de worl' is Jesus, an' ebery room is full of de sunshine of thy love. Dere's no harm kin cum to us ef we'se inside de fold, fer thou art de door, Lord Jesus; dere's no danger kin touch us ef we'se hidden in de cleft of de rock. Lord, make us abide in de secret place of de Almighty an' hoi' us close forever under de shadow of thy wing."
En ernudder thing w'at proves de tale 'bout dis ole Primus is de way he goes on ef anybody ax' him how he come by dat club-foot. I axed 'im one day, mighty perlite en civil, en he call' me a' ole fool, en got so mad he ain' spoke ter me sence. Hit's monst'us quare. But dis is a quare worl', anyway yer kin fix it," concluded the old man, with a weary sigh.
The first is that the money of the worl' was intended for all the worl' that reaches out a hand an' works for it. "The other is that every man who works is entitled to a home. "It was never intended for one man, or one corporation or one trust or one king or one anything else, to own more than his share of the money of the worl', no matter how they get it.
"We'se not payin' much complimen' ter Jesus, friens, when we 'low dat de good tings of dis worl' kin make people happier dan he kin, an' 'pears like we ought ter be 'shamed of ourselves.
The swamper stood up with his own eyes full, but his voice was firm. "Bonaventure, I don't got much. I got dat li'l' shanty on Bayou des Acadiens, and li'l' plunder inside few kittle', and pan', cast-net, fish-line', two, t'ree gun', and my wife' grave, yond' in graveyard. But I got Claude, my boy, my son. You t'ink God want me give my son to whole worl'?"
"But how can I ever trust him again? He he ain't Martin Luther any more!" And of a sudden he began to cry. Emma Campbell, with a bundle of clean wet clothes on her brawny arm, shook her head at him. "Lawd, no, Peter! 'T ain't de cat whut 's been foolin' you; it 's you whut 's been foolin' yo' own self. For, lo, fum de foundations ob dis worl', he was a she! Must n' blame de cat, chile.
You is de lowdownest orneriest hound dat was ever pup'd into dis worl' en I's 'sponsible for it!" and she spat on him. He made no effort to resent this. Roxy reflected a moment, then she said: "Now I'll tell you what you's gwine to do. You's gwine to give dat man de money dat you's got laid up, en make him wait till you kin go to de judge en git de res' en buy me free agin." "Thunder!
"Nobody understands that dog, Bonaparte, but me," said Carpenter after a while "he's to dogs what his namesake was to man. He's the champ'un fighter of the Tennessee Valley, an' the only cross-eyed purp in the worl', as I have often said. Like all gen'uses of course, he's a leetle peculiar but him and me we understan's each other."
'He's tink more for dat leel baby dan for de whole worl'; he's tink more for dat baby dan for me, but she shrugged her pretty little shoulders in deprecation of her speech. 'You must pray for him, said Mrs. Mavor, 'and all will come right. 'Ah! madame! she replied earnestly, 'every day, every day, I pray la sainte Vierge et tous les saints for him.
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