In Tickfall, religion was reduced to the least common divisor. That is to say, there was one church for the white people and one for the black. The white children felt that they were imposed upon by the older and more dominating members of their families in that they were made to go to Sunday-school, whereas, the black children were permitted by their parents to grow up in that ignorance which is bliss.
Org had no particular love for religious instruction. All the time that he was trying to learn a sufficient portion of that day’s lesson to satisfy his teacher, he was thinking of a buzzard’s nest which Little Bit had told him about, a buzzard’s nest which contained two baby buzzards, both of them white as snow. If that buzzard’s nest had been concealed in some Sunday-school book—but Org never found anything interesting in a Sunday-school book. What little he knew of that day’s portion of the Scripture had been imparted to him by the laborious efforts of his sister, and he was now walking down the hill toward the church, mumbling his newly acquired information to himself.
“Whar you gwine, Marse Org?”
“Sunday-school. Come and go with me.”
“Ain’t fitten,” Little Bit giggled. “A little black coon like me ain’t got no place in a white chu’ch. Excusin’ dat, I janitors in a saloon, an’ Sunday-schools ain’t made fer such.”
“I’ll tell you all I know about the lesson,” Org urged. “Listen: Methusalem—oldest man ever was: nine hundred and sixty-nine years old—was not, for God took him—gathered to his fathers——”
“How ole you say he wus gwine on when he died?” Little Bit asked.
“Nine hundred and sixty-nine years.”
“Whoop-ee! Whut did de ole gizzard die of when he died?”
“I dunno,” Org replied. “He died of smoking cigarettes, I reckon. If you go with me, we’ll ask the teacher.”