Sam’l took a trip a-Sad’day;
    Dressed hisse’f in all he had,
  Tuk a cane an’ went a-strollin’,
    Lookin’ mighty pleased an’ glad. 
  Some folks don’ know whut de mattah,
    But I do, you bet yo’ life;
  Sam’l smilin’ an’ a-singin’
    ’Case he been to see his wife.

  She live on de fu’ plantation,
    Twenty miles erway er so;
  But huh man is mighty happy
    Wen he git de chanst to go. 
  Walkin’ allus ain’ de nices’—­
    Mo’nin’ fin’s him on de way—­
  But he allus comes back smilin’,
    Lak his pleasure was his pay.

  Den he do a heap o’ talkin’,
    Do’ he mos’ly kin’ o’ still,
  But de wo’ds, dey gits to runnin’
    Lak de watah fu’ a mill. 
  “Whut ‘s de use o’ havin’ trouble,
    Whut ‘s de use o’ havin’ strife?”
  Dat ’s de way dis Sam’l preaches
    W’en he been to see his wife.

  An’ I reckon I git jealous,
    Fu’ I laff an’ joke an’ sco’n,
  An’ I say, “Oh, go on, Sam’l,
    Des go on, an’ blow yo’ ho’n.” 
  But I know dis comin’ Sad’day,
    Dey ’ll be brighter days in life;
  An’ I ’ll be ez glad ez Sam’l
    W’en I go to see my wife.

BOOKER T. WASHINGTON

  The word is writ that he who runs may read. 
  What is the passing breath of earthly fame? 
  But to snatch glory from the hands of blame—­
  That is to be, to live, to strive indeed. 
  A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed,
  And from its dark and lowly door there came
  A peer of princes in the world’s acclaim,
  A master spirit for the nation’s need. 
  Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind,
    The mark of rugged force on brow and lip,
  Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind
    Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip;
  With one idea foremost in his mind,
    Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship.

THE MONK’S WALK

  In this sombre garden close
  What has come and passed, who knows? 
  What red passion, what white pain
  Haunted this dim walk in vain?

  Underneath the ivied wall,
  Where the silent shadows fall,
  Lies the pathway chill and damp
  Where the world-quit dreamers tramp.

  Just across, where sunlight burns,
  Smiling at the mourning ferns,
  Stand the roses, side by side,
  Nodding in their useless pride.

  Ferns and roses, who shall say
  What you witness day by day? 
  Covert smile or dropping eye,
  As the monks go pacing by.

  Has the novice come to-day
  Here beneath the wall to pray? 
  Has the young monk, lately chidden,
  Sung his lyric, sweet, forbidden?

  Tell me, roses, did you note
  That pale father’s throbbing throat? 
  Did you hear him murmur, “Love!”
  As he kissed a faded glove?