I woa'd my mules mighty easy (Ellick's back was towards the road And the wind hit was sorter breezy) And I got down off'n my load, And I crep' up close to Ellick's back, And I heerd him a-talkin' softly, thus: "Them figgers is got me under the hack. I caint see how to git out'n the muss, Except to jest nat'ally fail and bus'! My crap-leen calls for nine hundred and more. My counts o' sales is eight hundred and four, Of cotton for Ellick Garry. Thar's eight, ought, four, jest like on a slate: Here's nine and two oughts -- Hauh? nine from eight Leaves nuthin' -- and none to carry. "Them crap-leens, oh, them crap-leens! I giv one to Pardman and Sharks. Hit gobbled me up like snap-beans In a patch full o' old fiel'-larks. But I thought I could fool the crap-leen nice, And I hauled my cotton to Jammel and Cones. But shuh! 'fore I even had settled my price They tuck affidavy without no bones And levelled upon me fur all ther loans To the 'mount of sum nine hundred dollars or more, And sold me out clean for eight hundred and four, As sure as I'm Ellick Garry! And thar it is down all squar and straight, But I can't make it gee, fur nine from eight Leaves nuthin' -- and none to carry." Then I says "Hello, here, Garry! However you star' and frown Thare's somethin' fur YOU to carry, Fur you've worked it upside down!" Then he riz and walked to his little bull-cart, And made like he neither had seen nor heerd Nor knowed that I knowed of his raskilly part, And he tried to look as if HE wa'nt feared, And gathered his lines like he never keered, And he driv down the road 'bout a quarter or so, And then looked around, and I hollered "Hello, Look here, Mister Ellick Garry! You may git up soon and lie down late, But you'll always find that nine from eight Leaves nuthin' -- and none to carry." ____ Macon, Georgia, 1870. "Thar's more in the Man than thar is in the Land". I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones, Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones, And he lived pretty much by gittin' of loans, And his mules was nuthin' but skin and bones, And his hogs was flat as his corn-bread pones, And he had 'bout a thousand acres o' land. This man -- which his name it was also Jones -- He swore that he'd leave them old red hills and stones, Fur he couldn't make nuthin' but yallerish cotton, And little o' THAT, and his fences was rotten, And what little corn he had, HIT was boughten And dinged ef a livin' was in the land. And the longer he swore the madder he got, And he riz and he walked to the stable lot, And he hollered to Tom to come thar and hitch Fur to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich, And to quit raisin' cock-burrs, thistles and sich, And a wastin' ther time on the cussed land.