And it wuzn’t till after the dishes wuz all washed up, and we wuz a settin’ on each side of the stand, which had a bright cloth and a clean lamp on it, I with my knittin’ work and he with his _World_, that he resoomed and took up the conversation about Cousin John Richard’s beliefs. And I see, jest what I had seen, that as well as he liked John Richard, that worthy creeter had not convinced him; and he even felt inclined, now the magnetism of his presence wuz withdrawn, to pow at his earnest beliefs and sentiments. 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 averte 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.