“But I tell you, Boss, his name was P’inter—he had no noshun ob quittin’. He spun erlong on de straight stretches lak he had er runnin’ mate, an’ you’d wonder whut hilt ’im to de yearth. Den he ease up gently on de turns ob de track—whar he hit de doubters an’ de ’siety an’ de fools dat grasp at de bubbles ob wealth an’ folly on de ribber, an’ let de mighty stream wid all its depth an’ grandeur pass onnoticed to de ocean’—as he sed, he ease up dar an’ ketch his bref so gently lak, an’ sorrerful, you’d think he gwine stop an’ weep fur ’em, an’ you feel lak weepin’ yourse’f, fur yore own follies an’ de follies ob de wurl—but all de time he wus gittin’ dar!—an’ ef he did ease up es he went up de hill, it wus only jes’ long enuf ter let de light shine down on ’im frum heben, an’ he seemed ter linger jes’ er minnit in de sweetnes’ ob its glory. “I wiped erway a tear an’ snapped my ole timer ergin—1:30½! ‘Dat’s good Baptis’ doctrine,’ sez I, ‘ef it am a trifle speedy. Lord, ef he do bust de recurd I hope you’ll gib ’im de Atlantic Ocean to spunge off in—sumpin’ in keepin’ wid his own nachur.’ An’ I sing sof’ly to myse’f dat good ole hymn, sung by Moses an’ de profets so long ergo: Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name, I’m Baptis’ till I die; I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church, Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie! Hard trials, Great tribelashuns, chilluns, Hard trials, I’m gwine ter leab dis wurl’. “But bless you, honey, he wus jes’ playin’ on dem yudder quarters; he commenced ter pace now. He got right down on de groun’, an’ dough he didn’t make no fuss an’ you cudn’t see er moshun, nur eben de spokes ob de sulky, he talked lak er dyin’ muther to her wayward boy. He scorned de track ob dis wurl an’ seemed ter be pacin’ in de pure air ob God, an’ yit he didn’t rouse er angry wind, nur bring out de loud shouts frum de wurldly gran’ stan’, nur de hoozars of victory, nur de wild frenzy ob delight—but des tears, sweet tears. I cried lak er baby. I furgot ter time ’im. De sof’ light cum in frum de winder ob God an’ got inter de winder ob de ole man’s hart. De smell ob de yearthly flowers wus turned to heabenly ones, an’ when his sof’, ’pealin’ voice died away an’ de sweet, ’pealin’ music commenced, I cudn’t tell whar de sermin ended an’ de music begun, dey run togedder so. I sot in er sort ob er dream; I wanted ter go ter heaben; I heerd de white folks all pass quietly out; I heerd de notes ob de organ die erway, but I sot in de cornder, way off by mysef, an’ thanked God dat I’d seed de light an’ heerd de recurd ob salvation busted.” THE QUEST OF POAQUITA By Horatio Lankford King