“‘He that loseth his life for my sake shall save it,’ he said, an’ ebry lick he hit went home to de ole man’s hart. Oh, hit wuz er clip. He tuck up Greek art an’ literachure an’ he painted it so beautiful you cu’d see de statue ob Diana beam outen his eyes an’ de grace ob Apollo fall frum his hands. Away he went at dat pooty clip till he sud’n’y shifted his gait an’ struck de follies ob dis wurl, an’ den I seed whut all dat riggin’ wus fur, fur he turned it into er toga an’ he looked like Jupiter es he shook de roof wid his speed an’ his stride. “‘He’s gwine too fast fur de fus’ quarter,’ I sed, as I sot holdin’ my bref; but befo’ de wurds wuz out he seed it, too, an’ he check up er leetle, an’ he cum down es gently es de summer winds play—but er-gittin’ dar all de time!—an’ den he tell us how all dis art an’ all dis interlect wa’nt nuffin’ ef we didn’t lub God an’ do right an’ lib pure libes, an’ his voice wus lak de music ob de winds in de valley, an’ ebrything he say jes’ peer to be dat way an’ no argyment—and all de time he wuz jes’ er-gittin’ dar—an’ es he passed de fus’ quarter I cudden’t help it, I jes’ tuck out my ole watch an’ snapped it, an’ dar it stood—thirty seconds, holy Moses! “But dat didn’t wind ’im, fur he started in de naixt quarter so fas’ I tho’t sho’ he gwine fly in de air. But he didn’t. He fairly burnt up de track ob sin an’ folly an’ littleness an’ meanness, an’ he made de leetle rail birds ob selfishness fly to de woods, an’ de touts ob scandal slunk erway, an’ de drivers of trick an’ cheat hunted fer ernuther track, an’ de timers of folly throwed erway dey watch—an’ all de time he wus er-gittin’ dar—an’ he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot nur missed his clip, an’ he made de ole high wheel sulky trimble all over lak er leaf in de storm, an’ he showed how ebrybody reap whut dey sow; how de artis’ lib in art, an’ de poit in poltry, an’ de patriot in de harts ob his countrymen, all arter dey dun dead an’ buried. An’ ‘Oh,’ he ses, so sarchin’ lak I see de folks trimble, ‘ef you lib fur de wurl you’ll die wid de wurl; but ef you lib fur God you’ll nurver die!’ An’ I cu’d see it all so plain an’ so quick an’ so terribul an’ so true I jes’ pulled out my ole timer ergin es he passed de ha’f, an’ click! dar she stood—59½! “‘By de horn ob de tabbernacle,’ sez I, ‘he can’t keep up dat clip! Dat’s de ha’f dat burnt up Joe Patchen!’