Dey 's a kin' o' doleful feelin', Hits a tendah place, 'Long to'ds night; Dey 's a moughty glory in him Shinin' thoo his face, Long to'ds night. De cabin 's lak de big house, an' de fiah's lak de sun; His wife look moughty lakly, an' de chile de puttiest one; W'y, hit 's blessid, jes' a-livin' w'en a body's wo'k is done. 'Long to'ds night. A GRIEVANCE Wen de snow 's a-fallin' An' de win' is col'. Mammy 'mence a-callin', Den she 'mence to scol', "Lucius Lishy Brackett, Don't you go out do's, Button up yo' jacket, Les'n you 'll git froze." I sit at de windah Lookin' at de groun', Nuffin nigh to hindah, Mammy ain' erroun'; Wish 't she would n' mek me Set down in dis chaih; Pshaw, it would n't tek me Long to git some aih. So I jump down nimble Ez a boy kin be, Dough I 's all a-trimble Feahed some one 'll see; Bet in a half a minute I fly out de do' An' I 's knee-deep in it, Dat dah blessed snow. Den I hyeah a pattah Come acrost de flo'. Den dey comes a clattah At de cabin do'; An' my mammy holler Spoilin' all my joy, "Come in f'om dat waller, Don't I see you, boy?" Wen de snow 's a-sievin' Down ez sof ez meal, Whut 's de use o' livin' 'Cept you got de feel Of de stuff dat's fallin' 'Roun' an' white an' damp, 'Dout some one a-callin', "Come in hyeah, you scamp!" DINAH KNEADING DOUGH I have seen full many a sight Born of day or drawn by night: Sunlight on a silver stream, Golden lilies all a-dream, Lofty mountains, bold and proud, Veiled beneath the lacelike cloud; But no lovely sight I know Equals Dinah kneading dough. Brown arms buried elbow-deep Their domestic rhythm keep, As with steady sweep they go Through the gently yielding dough. Maids may vaunt their finer charms-- Naught to me like Dinah's arms; Girls may draw, or paint, or sew-- I love Dinah kneading dough. Eyes of jet and teeth of pearl, Hair, some say, too tight a-curl; But the dainty maid I deem Very near perfection's dream. Swift she works, and only flings Me a glance--the least of things. And I wonder, does she know That my heart is in the dough? TO A CAPTIOUS CRITIC Dear critic, who my lightness so deplores, Would I might study to be prince of bores, Right wisely would I rule that dull estate-- But, sir, I may not, till you abdicate. DAT OL' MARE O' MINE Want to trade me, do you, mistah? Oh, well, now, I reckon not, W'y you could n't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot. Dat ol' mare o' mine? Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an' she ain't no shakes to see; Dat's a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an' she got a on'ry knee, But dey ain't no use in talkin', she de only hoss fu' me, Dat ol' mare o' mine.