Ub cose, I had ter tell de truf, so I say hit’s somethin’ little boys an’ girls mus’n’ talk erbout. ] “In May, 1865, we all s’rendered at Gainesville, Alabama. Mars Bedford gib me Pigeon an’ money ter cum home wid ef’n I wanted ter. Fuh fo’ days I hunted ’roun’ Gainesville ’mong de troops futto fine Mars Torm. I knew’d he lib near Rome, Georgia, an’, ub cose, he had ter ride de same road I did, so I wanted him ter let me ride ez far ez Mrs. Sanson’s wid him. Dem sweet people wuz so kine ter me I wuz gwine ter gib ’em Pigeon; mo’n dat, I wuz feard ter ride by mebsef in uh gray nuniform fum Gainesville ter Black Creek, erboutin two hunard miles. How-some-ebba, I ’cluded ter ride jes’ at night, an’ bless Gord, in erbout uh week I struck Black Creek ford horngry an’ tired. De birds wuz singin’, roostus crowin’, hens uh cacklin’ an’ de watah in de creek ez clear ez uh jewdrap, an’ Pigeon she jes’ nach’ly went in de watah kase she seed Mrs. Sanson’s house—wuz horngry an’ ve’y tired. I wuzn’ watchin’ de mule, an’ de fus’ thing I knewed Pigeon gib uh monstus buck an’ mos’ jumped of’n de ford in dat deep watah; den she tuck uh good look wid huh ears an’ went ’long—-an’ what you s’pose frighten’d dat mule? He! he! he! he! dar sot on uh plank ’tween two rocks Mars Torm (no wunna I cudn’ fine him) an’ Miss Emma fishin’ in de deep watah at de foot ub de ford. I meck bleebe I didn’ see ’em, _an’ dey sut’ny didn’ see me_; you see dey wuz fishin’. When I got ’cross de ford, Pigeon wuz so tired she stop an’ res’, an’ I watch to see ef’n de fish bitin’, kase I wuz al’ays fond ub fishin’, and I heah Mars Torm say, in words ez sorf ez dem riffles, ‘I lub dis creek; de watah so repose, an’ cums twissin’ in dis big pool gittin’ stiller an’ stiller tell it seems ter stop, res’ an’ be so happy. Oh, ef’n meh hyart wuz ez happy ez dis stream! It chatters, an’ sings, an’ smiles, an’ baves itself in de sunlight; it looks so contented, but I am so sad’—an’ he did look rejected. Den Miss Emma open huh cherrypin mouf an’ say raal sorf, ‘What’s de mattah; yo’ ole woun’ hurt you?’ An’ he say, ‘No; it’s de new woun’; I mus’ leabe ter-morrow, so I mus’ tell you dat yo’ sweet eyes, lubly hyart, beautiful, brabe soul has ’chanted me ev’y sence I fus’ saw you, an’ I wan’ ter arsk befo’ I go, dear Miss Emma, dat you will let me lub you. I don’ arsk you ter lub me.’ Jes’ de way I use ter cote—He! He! He! ’ceppin I use ter say: “Roses red, wiolets blue, Sugah sweet, me too.”