He is the first tincture and rudiment of a writer, dipped as yet in the preparative blue, like an almanac well-willer.

A DEATH SONG Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, Whah de branch'll go a-singin' as it pass An' w'en I's a-layin' low, I kin hyeah it as it go Singin', "Sleep, my honey, tek yo' res' at las'.