Fur I reckin' the hills, an' stars, an' creek
Are all of 'em preachers sent by God.
An' them mountains talk tew a chap this way:
"Climb, if ye can, ye degenerate cuss!"
An' the stars smile down on a man, an say,
"Come higher, poor critter, come up tew us!"


XII.

An' I reckin', pard, thar is One above
The highest old star that a chap can see,
An' He says, in a solid, etarnal way,
"Ye never can stop till ye get to ME!"
Good fur Him, tew! fur I calculate
HE ain't the One to dodge an' tew shirk,
Or waste a mite of the things He's made,
Or knock off till He's finished His great Day's work!


XIII.

We've got to labor an' strain an' snort
Along thet road thet He's planned an' made;
Don't matter a mite He's cut His line
Tew run over a 'tarnal, tough up-grade;
An' if some poor sinner ain't built tew hold
Es big a head of steam es the next,
An' keeps slippin' an' slidin' 'way down hill,
Why, He don't make out that He's awful vex'd.