Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!
Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me -- Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother -- where is she?
You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: Like her, too, about _livin'_ here, -- because _she_ couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead -- like her! -- But I hain't got nothin' to say!
She left you her little Bible -- writ yer name acrost the page -- And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.
I've allus kep'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away -- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!
And now yer -- how old _air_ you? W'y, child, not _"twenty! "_ When?
And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?
I wisht yer mother was livin'! -- But -- I hain't got nothin' to say!
Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!
There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there -- I'll bresh it off -- turn around. (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away! ) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
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