“I ’spec’,” said old Ca’lina Manigo, “I ’spec’, I mos’ sho’, rokkoon duh walk duh paat’ dis berry night! Please Gawd, ef Him didn’ mek dat snake ’stroy’d Hol’fas’ las’ yeah, I could’uh ketch one tenight, tenight, duh de night!”
“Ef you so hongry fuh rokkoon meat, w’en de praise done gitt’ru, we kin tek my dog Ring en’ tek a leetle dribe,” said Monday Parker, a stalwart black fellow.
“Ring!” said Ca’lina, scornfully. “Ring! Boy, ef you talk Ring’ name een de same bre’t’ wid Hol’fas’ name, you will mek me hab sin right yuh tenight! I kin tek ole Hol’fas’ jawbone out’n de du’t weh de buzzut done lef’um, en’ I kin pit dat jawbone ’puntop uh rokkoon track, en’ him will mek de rokkoon git een de tree top, befo’ Ring kin ketch a fleas out’n ’e own tail! Go’way, Paa’kuh, man, you know berry well yo’ dog cyan’ specify!”
“’Nuf t’ing, ’scusin’ dog, dey een dis wull’ w’at cyan’ specify,” said a deep voice from the darkness without, and, in a moment more, the long-looked-for pastor, mounted on a raw-boned brindled ox, rode into the broad disk of firelight that filled the glade. A grain sack stuffed with corn shucks was his saddle, and a long grapevine wound around and around the unhappy ox, together with martingales and crupper of the same, held it in place. A bridle and stirrups of frayed cotton rope completed the extraordinary equestrian equipment.
“Cow iz shishuh ’ceitful t’ing fuh ride, dat I mos’ didn’ mek me ’p’int,” said the preacher, as he dismounted and hitched his animal to a bush.
“Paul Jinkin’ got some shinny peas plant close by de road aige, en’ dis cow bin so hongry dat, w’en I git to weh de fench bruk down, ’e tek ’eself en’ me en’ all, en’ gone een de fiel’ en’ staa’t fuh nyam de peas, en’ I try fuh git’um out de fiel’, ’cause Paul ent b’long to we chu’ch, but de cow haa’d-head ez a ’ooman, en’ I couldn’ git’um fuh lef’ de fiel’, ontel we yerry Paul call to ’e lady fuh git up en’ he’p’um ketch de somebody w’at dey een de fiel’, en’ w’en I yerry dat, I yent want’uh git de cow’ cyarrictuh spile, so I mek’um come out’n’ de fiel’—en’ dat how I git yuh late.”
Taking his stand in the tall box of rough pine boards that served for a pulpit, he looked askance at the contributions to his support that various members of his congregation brought to the altar and laid on the ground beside him. A quart of grist, a dozen eggs, a chicken, a pint of “clean” rice, a nickle—ostentatiously brought forth from a knot in the corner of an apron and placed by the proud donor “een de Reb’ren’ han’”—such were the offerings of this simple people, but, although representing more than a tithe of their possessions, they found little favor in the pastor’s eyes.
“Sistuh Wineglass,” said he, as a bustling middle-aged woman smilingly presented a chicken. “Sistuh Wineglass, chickin’ seems to sca’ceful een dis congregashun ez debble sca’ceful een heab’n! Dis mek only de t’ree chickin’ w’at bin contributes to dis chu’ch sence de las’ quawt’ly preachin’, en’ I done tell oonuh one time ’ready dat dis pulpit cyan’ filfill’ bidout bittle. Ent de Scriptuh say een de fo’teen chaptuh een Nickuhdemus, dat de lab’ruh wut’ ’e hire? I gots to lef’ my crap kibbuh wid grass, en’ come yuh fuh ’rassle en’ agguhnize wid oonuh sinful soul en’ t’ing, en’ you gots de nomannus to come een de Lawd’ house wid t’ree aig’ en’ one leetle fo’punce chickin een yo’ han’, en’ ’spec’ fuh ketch salwashun, enty? Ef you saa’ch Nickuhdemus’ wu’d you will fin’ dat ’e say ’sponsubble dat a fo’punce chickin cyan’ specify fuh seb’npunce’ wut’ uh salwashun! You tell me week befo’ las’ dat you couldn’ git no chickin’ ’scusin’ you git aig’, en’ you cyan’ gots no aig’ ’cep’n’ de hen lay’um, but de Lawd’ wu’d say, ef yo’ right han’, eeduhso yo’ right han’ feet, refen’ you, you mus’ cut’um off, en’ ef de hen cyan’ specify, you mus’ cut off him head same fashi’n en’”—
The pastor’s prelude was brought to a sudden close by a deafening peal of thunder that echoed and re-echoed through the forest. A gust of wind lifted the sweetgum thatch from the rafters of the little church and scattered the boughs to leeward, and, as the big raindrops began to fall upon the assembled worshipers, Pa Kinlaw gathered together his prog, mounted his ox, and trotted off in the darkness, calling to his flock as he went, “de Lawd en’ me alltwo cyan’ talk one time! De nex’ preachin’ will be to Sistuh Rab’nel’ house ’bout fus’ daa’k Chuesday night!”