Some allus goes for it, like
the bud-pickers to the red-currant bushes, some slips here an' theer, an'
do straightway right 'emselves--right 'emselves again an' again. The best
life be just a slippin' up an' rightin' over an' over, till a man dies.
You've slipped young an' maybe theer's half a cent'ry o' years waitin' for
'e to get 'pon the right road; yet you sez you must abide by what you've
done. Think how it stands. You've forgived him as wronged 'e, an' caan't
the Lard forgive as easy as you can? He forgived you 'fore you was born. I
lay the Luke Gosp'lers never told 'e that braave fact, 'cause they doan't
knaw it theerselves. 'Tis like this: your man did take plain Nature for
God, an' he did talk fulishness 'bout finding Him in the scent o' flowers,
the hum o' bees an' sichlike. Mayhap Nature's a gude working God for a
selfish man, but she edn' wan for a maid, as you knaws by now. Then your
faither--his God do sit everlastingly alongside hell-mouth, an' laugh an'
girn to see all the world a walkin' in, same as the beasts walked in the
Ark. Theer's another picksher of a God for 'e; but mark this, gal, they be
lying prophets--lying prophets both! You've tried the wan, an' found it
left your heart hollow like, an' you've tried t'other an' found that left
it no better filled; now try Christ, will 'e--? Just try. Doan't keep Him,
as is allus busy, a waitin' your whims no more.
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