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Poem	How this woman came by the courage, how she got the courage, Henry bemused himself in a frantic hot night of the eight of July, where it came from, did once the Lord frown down upon her ancient cradle thinking 'This one will do before she die for two and seventy years of chipped indignities at least,' and with his thunder clapped a promise? In that far away town who looky upon my mother with shame & rage that any should endure such pilgrimage, growled Henry sweating, grown but not grown used to the goodness of this woman in her great strength, in her hope superhuman, no, no, not used at all. I declare a mystery, he mumbled to himself, of love, and took the bourbon from the shelf and drank her a tall one, tall.
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