I waved off Josiah’s talk; I tried to evade his eloquence (or what he called eloquence). For somehow John Richard’s talk had made more impression onto me than it had onto Josiah, and I could not bear to hear the cherished beliefs of that good man set all to naut. So I tried to turn off Josiah’s attention by allusions to the tariff, the calves, the national debt, to Ury’s new suit of clothes, to the washboard, to Tirzah Ann’s married life, and to the excellencies and beauties of our two little granddaughters Babe and Snow—Tirzah Ann’s and Thomas Jefferson’s little girls. But though this last subject wuz like a shinin’ bait, and he ketched on it and hung there for some time, a descantin’ on the rare excellencies of them two wonderful children, yet anon, or nearly so, he wriggled away from that glitterin’ bait and swung back to the subject that he had heard descanted on so powerfully the night John Richard come. And in spite of all my nearly frenzied but peaceful efforts—for when he wuz so tired and beat out I wouldn’t use voyalence—he would resoom the subject. And sez he for the third or fourth time: “John Richard is a crackin’ good feller—they most all of ’em are that are on my side—but for all that I don’t believe a word of what he said about the South.” I kep’ demute, and wouldn’t say what I did believe or what I didn’t, for I felt tired some myself; and I felt if he insisted and went on, I should be led into arguin’ with him. For Cousin John Richard’s talk had fell into meller ground in my brain, and I more than mistrusted it wuz a springin’ up there onbeknown to me. Josiah Allen and I never did, and I spoze never will, think alike about things, and I am fur more mejum than he is. And then he sort o’ satisfies himself by lookin’ at one side of a idee, while I always want to walk round it and see what is on the other side on it, and turn it over and see what is under it, etc., etc. But anon he bust out agin, and his axent was one that must be replied to; I felt it wouldn’t do to ignore it any longer. Sez he, “I am dead sick of all this talk about the Race Problem.” “Then why,” sez I, mildly but firmly, “why do you insist on talkin’ on it?” “I want to tell you my feelin’s,” sez he. Sez I, “I know ’em, Josiah Allen.” And then I sot demute, and hoped I had averted the storm—or, ruther, I would call it the squall, for I didn’t expect a hard tempest, more of a drizzle. So I knit fast, and sot in hope. But anon he begun agin: “I am sick on’t. I believe more’n half the talk is for effect. I don’t believe the South is a bleedin’; I hain’t seen no blood. I don’t believe the niggers are a rizen, I hain’t seen ’em a gettin’ up. I believe it is all folderol.” And then I sez, a lookin’ up from my knittin’ work: “Be mejum, Josiah Allen; you don’t live there. You hain’t so good a judge as if you lived in the South; you hain’t so good a judge as John Richard is, for he has lived right there.” And he snapped out real snappish: