What are thy little thoughts about?
I cannot certain know,
Only there's not a wing of them
Upon a breath of woe,
For not a shadow's on thy face,
Nor billow heaves thy breast,--
All clear as any summer's lake
With not a zephyr press'd.
TO THE READER.
I have been solicited by very many friends, to give my narrative to the
public. Whatever my own judgment might be, I should yield to theirs. In
compliance, therefore, with this general request, and in the hope that
these pages may produce an impression favorable to my countrymen in
bondage; also that I may realize something from the sale of my work
towards the support of a numerous family, I have committed this
publication to press. It might have been made two or three, or even six
times larger, without diminishing from the interest of any one of its
pages--_indeed with an increased interest_--but the want of the pecuniary
means, and other considerations, have induced me to present it as here
seen.
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