Mr. Marston sat upon his wide veranda in the cool of the summer Sabbath morning. His hat was off, the soft breeze was playing with his brown hair, and a fragrant cigar was rolled lazily between his lips. He was taking his ease after the fashion of a true gentleman. But his eyes roamed widely, and his glance rested now on the blue-green sweep of the great lawn, again on the bright blades of the growing corn, and anon on the waving fields of tobacco, and he sighed a sigh of ineffable content. The breath had hardly died on his lips when the figure of an old man appeared before him, and, hat in hand, shuffled up the wide steps of the porch.
It was a funny old figure, stooped and so one-sided that the tail of the long and shabby coat he wore dragged on the ground. The face was black and shrewd, and little patches of snow-white hair fringed the shiny pate.
|Good-morning, Uncle Simon,| said Mr. Marston, heartily.
|Mornin' Mas' Gawge. How you come on?|
|I'm first-rate. How are you? How are your rheumatics coming on?|
|Oh, my, dey's mos' nigh well. Dey don' trouble me no mo'!|
|Most nigh well, don't trouble you any more?|
|Dat is none to speak of.|
|Why, Uncle Simon, who ever heard tell of a man being cured of his aches and pains at your age?|
|I ain' so powahful ol', Mas', I ain' so powahful ol'.|
|You're not so powerful old! Why, Uncle Simon, what's taken hold of you? You're eighty if a day.|
|Sh -- sh, talk dat kin' o' low, Mastah, don' 'spress yo'se'f so loud!| and the old man looked fearfully around as if he feared some one might hear the words.
The master fell back in his seat in utter surprise.
|And, why, I should like to know, may I not speak of your age aloud?|
Uncle Simon showed his two or three remaining teeth in a broad grin as he answered:
|Well, Mastah, I's 'fraid ol' man Time mought hyeah you an' t'ink he done let me run too long.| He chuckled, and his master joined him with a merry peal of laughter.
|All right, then, Simon,| he said, |I'll try not to give away any of your secrets to old man Time. But isn't your age written down somewhere?|
|I reckon it's in dat ol' Bible yo' pa gin me.|
|Oh, let it alone then, even Time won't find it there.|
The old man shifted the weight of his body from one leg to the other and stood embarrassedly twirling his ancient hat in his hands. There was evidently something more that he wanted to say. He had not come to exchange commonplaces with his master about age or its ailments.
|Well, what is it now, Uncle Simon?| the master asked, heeding the servant's embarrassment, |I know you've come up to ask or tell me something. Have any of your converts been backsliding, or has Buck been misbehaving again?|
|No, suh, de converts all seem to be stan'in' strong in de faif, and Buck, he actin' right good now.|
|Doesn't Lize bring your meals regular, and cook them good?|
|Oh, yes, suh, Lize ain' done nuffin'. Dey ain' nuffin' de mattah at de quahtahs, nuffin' 't'al.|
|Well, what on earth then -- |
|Hol' on, Mas', hol' on! I done tol' you dey ain' nuffin' de mattah 'mong de people, an' I ain' come to 'plain 'bout nuffin'; but -- but -- I wants to speak to you 'bout somefin' mighty partic'ler.|
|Well, go on, because it will soon be time for you to be getting down to the meeting-house to exhort the hands.|
|Dat's jes' what I want to speak 'bout, dat 'zortin'.|
|Well, you've been doing it for a good many years now.|
|Dat's de very idee, dat's in my haid now. Mas' Gawge, huccume you read me so nigh right?|
|Oh, that's not reading anything, that's just truth. But what do you mean, Uncle Simon, you don't mean to say that you want to resign. Why what would your old wife think if she was living?|
|No, no, Mas' Gawge, I don't ezzactly want to 'sign, but I'd jes' lak to have a few Sundays off.|
|A few Sundays off! Well, now, I do believe that you are crazy. What on earth put that into your head?|
|Nuffin', Mas' Gawge, I wants to be away f'om my Sabbaf labohs fu' a little while, dat's all.|
|Why, what are the hands going to do for some one to exhort them on Sunday. You know they've got to shout or burst, and it used to be your delight to get them stirred up until all the back field was ringing.|
|I do' say dat I ain' gwine try an' do dat some mo', Mastah, min' I do' say dat. But in de mean time I's got somebody else to tek my place, one dat I trained up in de wo'k right undah my own han'. Mebbe he ain' endowed wif de sperrit as I is, all men cain't be gifted de same way, but dey ain't no sputin' he is powahful. Why, he can handle de Scriptures wif bof han's, an' you kin hyeah him prayin' fu' two miles.|
|And you want to put this wonder in your place?|
|Yes, suh, fu' a while, anyhow.|
|Uncle Simon, aren't you losing your religion?|
|Losin' my u'ligion? Who, me losin' my u'ligion! No, suh.|
|Well, aren't you afraid you'll lose it on the Sundays that you spend out of your meeting-house?|
|Now, Mas' Gawge, you a white man, an' you my mastah, an' you got larnin'. But what kin' o' argyment is dat? Is dat good jedgment?|
|Well, now if it isn't, you show me why, you're a logician.| There was a twinkle in the eye of George Marston as he spoke.
|No, I ain' no 'gician, Mastah,| the old man contended. |But what kin' o' u'ligion you spec' I got anyhow? Hyeah me been sto'in' it up fu' lo, dese many yeahs an' ain' got enough to las' ovah a few Sundays. What kin' o' u'ligion is dat?|
The master laughed, |I believe you've got me there, Uncle Simon; well go along, but see that your flock is well tended.|
|Thanky, Mas' Gawge, thanky. I'll put a shepherd in my place dat'll put de food down so low dat de littles' lambs kin enjoy it, but'll mek it strong enough fu' de oldes' ewes.| And with a profound bow the old man went down the steps and hobbled away.
As soon as Uncle Simon was out of sight, George Marston threw back his head and gave a long shout of laughter.
|I wonder,| he mused, |what crotchet that old darkey has got into his head now. He comes with all the air of a white divine to ask for a vacation. Well, I reckon he deserves it. He had me on the religious argument, too. He's got his grace stored.| And another peal of her husband's laughter brought Mrs. Marston from the house.
|George, George, what is the matter. What amuses you so that you forget that this is the Sabbath day?|
|Oh, don't talk to me about Sunday any more, when it comes to the pass that the Reverend Simon Marston wants a vacation. It seems that the cares of his parish have been too pressing upon him and he wishes to be away for some time. He does not say whether he will visit Europe or the Holy Land, however, we shall expect him to come back with much new and interesting material for the edification of his numerous congregation.|
|I wish you would tell me what you mean by all this.|
Thus adjured, George Marston curbed his amusement long enough to recount to his wife the particulars of his interview with Uncle Simon.
|Well, well, and you carry on so, only because one of the servants wishes his Sundays to himself for awhile? Shame on you!|
|Mrs. Marston,| said her husband, solemnly, |you are hopeless -- positively, undeniably, hopeless. I do not object to your failing to see the humor in the situation, for you are a woman; but that you should not be curious as to the motives which actuate Uncle Simon, that you should be unmoved by a burning desire to know why this staunch old servant who has for so many years pictured hell each Sunday to his fellow-servants should wish a vacation -- that I can neither understand nor forgive.|
|Oh, I can see why easily enough, and so could you, if you were not so intent on laughing at everything. The poor old man is tired and wants rest, that's all.| And Mrs. Marston turned into the house with a stately step, for she was a proud and dignified lady.
|And that reason satisfies you? Ah, Mrs. Marston, Mrs. Marston, you discredit your sex!| her husband sighed, mockingly after her.
There was perhaps some ground for George Marston's perplexity as to Uncle Simon's intentions. His request for |Sundays off| was so entirely out of the usual order of things. The old man, with the other servants on the plantation had been bequeathed to Marston by his father. Even then, Uncle Simon was an old man, and for many years in the elder Marston's time had been the plantation exhorter. In this position he continued, and as his age increased, did little of anything else. He had a little log house built in a stretch of woods convenient to the quarters, where Sunday after Sunday he held forth to as many of the hands as could be encouraged to attend.
With time, the importance of his situation grew upon him. He would have thought as soon of giving up his life as his pulpit to any one else. He was never absent a single meeting day in all that time. Sunday after Sunday he was in his place expounding his doctrine. He had grown officious, too, and if any of his congregation were away from service, Monday morning found him early at their cabins to find out the reason why.
After a life, then, of such punctilious rigidity, it is no wonder that his master could not accept Mrs. Marston's simple excuse for Uncle Simon's dereliction, |that the old man needed rest.| For the time being, the good lady might have her way, as all good ladies should, but as for him, he chose to watch and wait and speculate.
Mrs. Marston, however, as well as her husband, was destined to hear more that day of Uncle Simon's strange move, for there was one other person on the place who was not satisfied with Uncle Simon's explanation of his conduct, and yet could not as easily as the mistress formulate an opinion of her own. This was Lize, who did about the quarters and cooked the meals of the older servants who were no longer in active service.
It was just at the dinner hour that she came hurrying up to the |big house,| and with the freedom of an old and privileged retainer went directly to the dining-room.
|Look hyeah, Mis' M'ree,| she exclaimed, without the formality of prefacing her remarks, |I wants to know whut's de mattah wif Brothah Simon -- what mek him ac' de way he do?|
|Why, I do not know, Eliza, what has Uncle Simon been doing?|
|Why, some o' you all mus' know, lessn' he couldn' 'a' done hit. Ain' he ax you nuffin', Marse Gawge?|
|Yes, he did have some talk with me.|
|Some talk! I reckon he did have some talk wif somebody!|
|Tell us, Lize,| Mr. Marston said, |what has Uncle Simon done?|
|He done brung somebody else, dat young Merrit darky, to oc'py his pu'pit. He in'juce him, an' 'en he say dat he gwine be absent a few Sundays, an' 'en he tek hissef off, outen de chu'ch, widout even waitin' fu' de sehmont.|
|Well, didn't you have a good sermon?|
|It mought 'a' been a good sehmont, but dat ain' whut I ax you. I want to know whut de mattah wif Brothah Simon.|
|Why, he told me that the man he put over you was one of the most powerful kind, warranted to make you shout until the last bench was turned over.|
|Oh, some o' dem, dey shouted enough, dey shouted dey fill. But dat ain' whut I's drivin' at yit. Whut I wan' 'o know, whut mek Brothah Simon do dat?|
|Well, I'll tell you, Lize,| Marston began, but his wife cut him off.
|Now, George,| she said, |you shall not trifle with Eliza in that manner.| Then turning to the old servant, she said: |Eliza, it means nothing. Do not trouble yourself about it. You know Uncle Simon is old; he has been exhorting for you now for many years, and he needs a little rest these Sundays. It is getting toward midsummer, and it is warm and wearing work to preach as Uncle Simon does.|
Lize stood still, with an incredulous and unsatisfied look on her face. After a while she said, dubiously shaking her head:
|Huh uh! Miss M'ree, dat may 'splain t'ings to you, but hit ain' mek 'em light to me yit.|
|Now, Mrs. Marston| -- began her husband, chuckling.
|Hush, I tell you, George. It's really just as I tell you, Eliza, the old man is tired and needs rest!|
Again the old woman shook her head, |Huh uh,| she said, |ef you'd' a' seen him gwine lickety split outen de meetin'-house you wouldn' a thought he was so tiahed.|
Marston laughed loud and long at this. |Well, Mrs. Marston,| he bantered, |even Lize is showing a keener perception of the fitness of things than you.|
|There are some things I can afford to be excelled in by my husband and my servants. For my part, I have no suspicion of Uncle Simon, and no concern about him either one way or the other.|
|'Scuse me, Miss M'ree,| said Lize, |I didn' mean no ha'm to you, but I ain' a trustin' ol' Brothah Simon, I tell you.|
|I'm not blaming you, Eliza; you are sensible as far as you know.|
|Ahem,| said Mr. Marston.
Eliza went out mumbling to herself, and Mr. Marston confined his attentions to his dinner; he chuckled just once, but Mrs. Marston met his levity with something like a sniff.
On the first two Sundays that Uncle Simon was away from his congregation nothing was known about his whereabouts. On the third Sunday he was reported to have been seen making his way toward the west plantation. Now what did this old man want there? The west plantation, so called, was a part of the Marston domain, but the land there was worked by a number of slaves which Mrs. Marston had brought with her from Louisiana, where she had given up her father's gorgeous home on the Bayou Lafourche, together with her proud name of Marie St. Pierre for George Marston's love. There had been so many bickerings between the Marston servants and the contingent from Louisiana that the two sets had been separated, the old remaining on the east side and the new ones going to the west. So, to those who had been born on the soil the name of the west plantation became a reproach. It was a synonym for all that was worldly, wicked and unregenerate. The east plantation did not visit with the west. The east gave a dance, the west did not attend. The Marstons and St. Pierres in black did not intermarry. If a Marston died, a St. Pierre did not sit up with him. And so the division had kept up for years.
It was hardly to be believed then that Uncle Simon Marston, the very patriarch of the Marston flock, was visiting over the border. But on another Sunday he was seen to go straight to the west plantation.
At her first opportunity Lize accosted him: --
|Look a-hyeah, Brothah Simon, whut's dis I been hyeahin' 'bout you, huh?|
|Well, sis' Lize, I reckon you'll have to tell me dat yo' se'f, 'case I do' know. Whut you been hyeahin'?|
|Brothah Simon, you's a ol' man, you's ol'.|
|Well, sis' Lize, dah was Methusalem.|
|I ain' jokin', Brothah Simon, I ain' jokin', I's a talkin' right straightfo'wa'd. Yo' conduc' don' look right. Hit ain' becomin' to you as de shepherd of a flock.|
|But whut I been doin', sistah, whut I been doin'?|
|I reckon I do, but I wan' see whethah you does er not.|
|You been gwine ovah to de wes' plantation, dat's whut you been doin'. You can' 'ny dat, you's been seed!|
|I do' wan' 'ny it. Is dat all?|
|Is dat all!| Lize stood aghast. Then she said slowly and wonderingly, |Brothah Simon, is you losin' yo' senses er yo' grace?|
|I ain' losin' one ner 'tothah, but I do' see no ha'm in gwine ovah to de wes' plantation.|
|You do' see no ha'm in gwine ovah to de wes' plantation! You stan' hyeah in sight o' Gawd an' say dat?|
|Don't git so 'cited, sis' Lize, you mus' membah dat dey's souls on de wes' plantation, jes' same as dey is on de eas'.|
|Yes, an' dey's souls in hell, too,| the old woman fired back.
|Cose dey is, but dey's already damned; but dey's souls on de wes' plantation to be saved.|
|Oomph, uh, uh, uh!| grunted Lize.
|You done called me de shepherd, ain't you, sistah? Well, sayin' I is, when dey's little lambs out in de col' an' dey ain' got sense 'nough to come in, er dey do' know de way, whut do de shepherd do? Why, he go out, an' he hunt up de po' shiverin', bleatin' lambs and brings 'em into de fol'. Don't you bothah 'bout de wes' plantation, sis' Lize.| And Uncle Simon hobbled off down the road with surprising alacrity, leaving his interlocutor standing with mouth and eyes wide open.
|Well, I nevah!| she exclaimed when she could get her lips together, |I do believe de day of jedgmen' is at han'.|
Of course this conversation was duly reported to the master and mistress, and called forth some strictures from Mrs. Marston on Lize's attempted interference with the old man's good work.
|You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Eliza, that you ought. After the estrangement of all this time if Uncle Simon can effect a reconciliation between the west and the east plantations, you ought not to lay a straw in his way. I am sure there is more of a real Christian spirit in that than in shouting and singing for hours, and then coming out with your heart full of malice. You need not laugh, Mr. Marston, you need not laugh at all. I am very much in earnest, and I do hope that Uncle Simon will continue his ministrations on the other side. If he wants to, he can have a room built in which to lead their worship.|
|But you do' want him to leave us altogethah?|
|If you do not care to share your meeting-house with them, they can have one of their own.|
|But, look hyeah, Missy, dem Lousiany people, dey bad -- an' dey hoodoo folks, an' dey Cath'lics -- |
|'Scuse me, Missy, chile, bless yo' hea't, you know I do' mean no ha'm to you. But somehow I do' feel right in my hea't 'bout Brothah Simon.|
|Never mind, Eliza, it is only evil that needs to be watched, the good will take care of itself.|
It was not one, nor two, nor three Sundays that Brother Simon was away from his congregation, but six passed before he was there again. He was seen to be very busy tinkering around during the week, and then one Sunday he appeared suddenly in his pulpit. The church nodded and smiled a welcome to him. There was no change in him. If anything he was more fiery than ever. But, there was a change. Lize, who was news-gatherer and carrier extraordinary, bore the tidings to her owners. She burst into the big house with the cry of |Whut I tell you! Whut I tell you!|
|Well, what now,| exclaimed both Mr. and Mrs. Marston.
|Didn' I tell you ol' Simon was up to some'p'n?|
|Out with it,| exclaimed her master, |out with it, I knew he was up to something, too.|
|George, try to remember who you are.|
|Brothah Simon come in chu'ch dis mo'nin' an' he 'scended up de pulpit -- |
|Well, what of that, are you not glad he is back?|
|Hol' on, lemme tell you -- he 'scended up de pu'pit, an' 'menced his disco'se. Well, he hadn't no sooner got sta'ted when in walked one o' dem brazen Lousiany wenches -- |
|Hol' on, Miss M'ree, she walked in lak she owned de place, an' flopped huhse'f down on de front seat.|
|Well, what if she did,| burst in Mrs. Marston, |she had a right. I want you to understand, you and the rest of your kind, that that meeting-house is for any of the hands that care to attend it. The woman did right. I hope she'll come again.|
|I hadn' got done yit, Missy. Jes' ez soon ez de sehmont was ovah, whut mus' Brothah Simon, de 'zortah, min' you, whut mus' he do but come hoppin' down f'om de pu'pit, an' beau dat wench home! 'Scorted huh clah 'crost de plantation befo' evahbody's face. Now whut you call dat?|
|I call it politeness, that is what I call it. What are you laughing at, Mr. Marston? I have no doubt that the old man was merely trying to set an example of courtesy to some of the younger men, or to protect the woman from the insults that the other members of the congregation would heap upon her. Mr. Marston, I do wish you would keep your face serious. There is nothing to laugh at in this matter. A worthy old man tries to do a worthy work, his fellow-servants cavil at him, and his master, who should encourage him, laughs at him for his pains.|
|I assure you, my dear, I'm not laughing at Uncle Simon.|
|Then at me, perhaps; that is infinitely better.|
|And not at you, either; I'm amused at the situation.|
|Well, Manette ca'ied him off dis mo'nin',| resumed Eliza.
|Manette!| exclaimed Mrs. Marston.
|It was Manette he was a beauin'. Evahbody say he likin' huh moughty well, an' dat he look at huh all th'oo preachin'.|
|Oh my! Manette's one of the nicest girls I brought from St. Pierre. I hope -- oh, but then she is a young woman, she would not think of being foolish over an old man.|
|I do' know, Miss M'ree. De ol' men is de wuss kin'. De young oomans knows how to tek de young mans, 'case dey de same age, an' dey been lu'nin' dey tricks right along wif dem'; but de ol' men, dey got sich a long sta't ahaid, dey been lu'nin' so long. Ef I had a darter, I wouldn' be afeard to let huh tek keer o' huhse'f wif a young man, but ef a ol' man come a cou'tin' huh, I'd keep my own two eyes open.|
|Eliza, you're a philosopher,| said Mr. Marston. |You're one of the few reasoners of your sex.|
|It is all nonsense,| said his wife. |Why Uncle Simon is old enough to be Manette's grandfather.|
|Love laughs at years.|
|And you laugh at everything.|
|That's the difference between love and me, my dear Mrs. Marston.|
|Do not pay any attention to your master, Eliza, and do not be so suspicious of every one. It is all right. Uncle Simon had Manette over, because he thought the service would do her good.|
|Yes'm, I 'low she's one o' de young lambs dat he gone out in de col' to fotch in. Well, he tek'n' moughty good keer o' dat lamb.|
Mrs. Marston was compelled to laugh in spite of herself. But when Eliza was gone, she turned to her husband, and said:
|George, dear, do you really think there is anything in it?|
|I thoroughly agree with you, Mrs. Marston, in the opinion that Uncle Simon needed rest, and I may add on my own behalf, recreation.|
|Pshaw! I do not believe it.|
All doubts, however, were soon dispelled. The afternoon sun drove Mr. Marston to the back veranda where he was sitting when Uncle Simon again approached and greeted him.
|Well, Uncle Simon, I hear that you're back in your pulpit again?|
|Yes, suh, I's done 'sumed my labohs in de Mastah's vineya'd.|'
|Have you had a good rest of it?|
|Well, I ain' ezzackly been restin',| said the aged man, scratching his head. |I's been pu'su'in' othah 'ployments.|
|Oh, yes, but change of work is rest. And how's the rheumatism, now, any better?|
|Bettah? Why, Mawse Gawge, I ain' got a smidgeon of hit. I's jes' limpin' a leetle bit on 'count o' habit.|
|Well, it's good if one can get well, even if his days are nearly spent.|
|Heish, Mas' Gawge. I ain' t'inkin' 'bout dyin'.|
|Aren't you ready yet, in all these years?|
|I hope I's ready, but I hope to be spaihed a good many yeahs yit.|
|To do good, I suppose?|
|Yes, suh; yes, suh. Fac' is, Mawse Gawge, I jes' hop up to ax you some'p'n.|
|Well, here I am.|
|I want to ax you -- I want to ax you -- er -- er -- I want -- |
|Oh, speak out. I haven't time to be bothering here all day.|
|Well, you know, Mawse Gawge, some o' us ain' nigh ez ol' ez dey looks.|
|That's true. A person, now, would take you for ninety, and to my positive knowledge, you're not more than eighty-five.|
|Oh, Lawd. Mastah, do heish.|
|I'm not flattering you, that's the truth.|
|Well, now, Mawse Gawge, couldn' you mek me' look lak eighty-fo', an' be a little youngah?|
|Why, what do you want to be younger for?|
|You see, hit's jes' lak dis, Mawse Gawge. I come up hyeah to ax you -- I want -- dat is -- me an' Manette, we wants to git ma'ied.|
|Get married!| thundered Marston. |What you, you old scarecrow, with one foot in the grave!|
|Heish, Mastah, 'buse me kin' o' low. Don't th'ow yo' words 'roun' so keerless.|
|This is what you wanted your Sundays off for, to go sparking around -- you an exhorter, too.|
|But I's been missin' my po' ol' wife so much hyeah lately.|
|You've been missing her, oh, yes, and so you want to get a woman young enough to be your granddaughter to fill her place.|
|Well, Mas' Gawge, you know, ef I is ol' an' feeble, ez you say, I need a strong young han' to he'p me down de hill, an' ef Manette don' min' spa'in' a few mont's er yeahs -- |
|That'll do, I'll see what your mistress says. Come back in an hour.|
A little touched, and a good deal amused, Marston went to see his wife. He kept his face straight as he addressed her. |Mrs. Marston, Manette's hand has been proposed for.|
|The Rev. Simon Marston has this moment come and solemnly laid his heart at my feet as proxy for Manette.|
|He shall not have her, he shall not have her!| exclaimed the lady, rising angrily.
|But remember, Mrs. Marston, it will keep her coming to meeting.|
|I do not care; he is an old hypocrite, that is what he is.|
|Think, too, of what a noble work he is doing. It brings about a reconciliation between the east and west plantations, for which we have been hoping for years. You really oughtn't to lay a straw in his way.|
|He's a sneaking, insidious, old scoundrel.|
|Such poor encouragement from his mistress for a worthy old man, who only needs rest!|
|George!| cried Mrs. Marston, and she sank down in tears, which turned to convulsive laughter as her husband put his arm about her and whispered, |He is showing the true Christian spirit. Don't you think we'd better call Manette and see if she consents? She is one of his lambs, you know.|
|Oh, George, George, do as you please. If the horrid girl consents, I wash my hands of the whole affair.|
|You know these old men have been learning such a long while.|
By this time Mrs. Marston was as much amused as her husband. Manette was accordingly called and questioned. The information was elicited from her that she loved |Brothah Simon| and wished to marry him.
|'Love laughs at age,'| quoted Mr. Marston again when the girl had been dismissed. Mrs. Marston was laughingly angry, but speechless for a moment. Finally she said: |Well, Manette seems willing, so there is nothing for us to do but to consent, although, mind you, I do not approve of this foolish marriage, do you hear?|
After a while the old man returned for his verdict. He took it calmly. He had expected it. The disparity in the years of him and his betrothed did not seem to strike his consciousness at all. He only grinned.
|Now look here, Uncle Simon,| said his master, |I want you to tell me how you, an old, bad-looking, half-dead darky won that likely young girl.|
The old man closed one eye and smiled.
|Mastah, I don' b'lieve you looks erroun' you,| he said. |Now, 'mongst white folks, you knows a preachah 'mongst de ladies is mos' nigh i'sistible, but 'mongst col'ed dey ain't no pos'ble way to git erroun' de gospel man w'en he go ahuntin' fu' anything.|