The old poet felt in his pockets as he spoke, and withdrew a folded sheet of straw-coloured wrapping paper and opened it. I was 'Bill' -plain 'Bill' - to everybody in that country, where, as you increased your love of a man, you diminished his name. I had been called Willie, William and Billy, and finally, when I threw the strong man of the township in a wrestling match they gave me this fail token of confidence. I bent over the shoulder of Jed Feary for a view of the manuscript, closely written witha lead pencil, and marked with many erasures.
'Le's hear it,' said David Brower.
Then I moved the lamp to his elbow and he began reading:
'A talk with William Brower on the occasion of his going away to colkge and writ oat in rhyme for him by his friend Jedediah Feary to be a token of respect.
The man that loses faith in God, ye'll find out every time, Has found a faith in his own self that's mighty nigh sublime.
He knows as much as all the saints an' calls religion flighty, An' in his narrow world assumes the place o' God Almighty.
But don't expect too much o' God, it wouldn't be quite fair If fer everything ye wanted ye could only swap a prayer; I'd pray fer yours an' you fer mine an' Deacon Henry Hospur He wouldn't hev a thing t' do but lay a-bed an' prosper.
If all things come so easy, Bill, they'd hev but little worth, An' someone with a gift O' prayer 'ud mebbe own the earth.
It's the toil ye give t' git a thing - the sweat an' blood an, trouble We reckon by - an' every tear'll make its value double.
There's a money O' the soul, my boy, ye'll find in after years, Its pennies are the sweat drops an' its dollars are the tears; An' love is the redeemin' gold that measures what they're worth, An' ye'll git as much in Heaven as ye've given out on earth.
Fer the record o' yer doin' - I believe the soul is planned With an automatic register t, tell jest how ye stand, An' it won't take any cipherin' t' show that fearful day, If ye've multiplied yer talents well, er thrown 'em all away.
When yer feet are on the summit, an' the wide horizon clears, An' ye look back on yer pathway windin' thro' the vale o' tears;When ye see how much ye've trespassed an' how fur ye've gone astray, Ye'll know the way o' Providence ain't apt t' be your way.
God knows as much as can be known, but I don't think it's true He knows of all the dangers in the path o' me an' you.
If I shet my eyes an' hurl a stone that kills the King o' Siam, The chances are that God'll be as much surprised as I am.
If ye pray with faith believin', why, ye'll certnly receive, But that God does what's impossible is more than I'll believe.
If it grieves Him when a sparrow falls, it's sure as anything, He'd hev turned the arrow if He could, that broke the sparrow's wing.
Ye can read old Nature's history thet's writ in rocks an' stones, Ye can see her throbbin' vitals an' her mighty rack o' hones.
But the soul o' her - the livin' God, a little child may know No lens er rule o' cipherin' can ever hope t' show.
There's a part o' Cod's creation very handy t' yer view, Al' the truth o' life is in it an' remember, Bill, it's you.
An' after all yer science ye must look up in yer mind, An' leam its own astronomy the star o' peace t' find.
There's good old Aunt Samanthy Jane thet all her journey long Has led her heart to labour with a reveille of song.
Her folks hev robbed an' left her but her faith in goodness grows, She hasn't any larnin', but I tell ye Bill, she knows!
She's hed her share o' troubles; I remember well the day We took her t' the poorhouse - she was singin' all the way;Ye needn't be afraid t' come where stormy Jordan flows, If all the larnin' ye can git has taught ye halfshe knows.'
I give this crude example of rustic philosophy, not because it has my endorsement - God knows I have ever felt it far beyond me - but because it is useful to those who may care to know the man who wrote it. I give it the poor fame of these pages with keen regret that my friend is now long passed the praise or blame of this world.
