“‘Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,’ said Noah, lookin’ solemn— Fur Noah tuk de ‘_Herald_,’ and he read de ribber column— An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_. Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ and a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen: An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’. Now, Noah had done cotched a lot of ebry sort o’ beas’es— Ob all de shows a-trabelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle— An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle. “Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitely, an’ bu’sted thro’ de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out—’sep’ Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters. ... “Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented. “He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin; An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ taprin’; He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it? “De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’se a singin’; De ha’rs so long and thick an’ strong,—des fit for banjo-stringin’; Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces; An’ sorted ob ’em by the size, f’om little E’s to basses. “He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twuz ‘Nebber min’ de wedder,”— She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder; Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers; An’ Ham he sot and knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers! “Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’ Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’; An’ cur’i’s, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em!— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!” ... The night is spent; and as the day Throws up the first faint, fresh flash of gray, The guests pursue their homeward way; And through the field beyond the gin. Just as the stars are going in, See Santa Claus departing—grieving— His own dear land of cotton leaving. His work is done; he fain would rest Where people know and love him best. He pauses, listens, looks about; But go he must: “his pass is out.” So, coughing down the rising tears, He climbs the fence and disappears.