They were having a genuine old-time revival in the darky church near by, and of course I went to see the enthusiasm.
You remember it was at such a place a devout and practical old mammy was heard to shout:
"Good Lawd, come down fru de roof, an' I'll pay for de shingles."
I wanted to see if the affair was all it had been cracked up to be.
It happened that in order that the revival spirit should be quickened, it was arranged that the preacher should give a signal when he thought the excitement was highest, and from the attic through a hole cut in the ceiling directly over the pulpit, the sexton was to shove a pure white dove, whose flight around the church and over the heads of the audience was expected to have an inspiring effect, and, as far as emotional excitement was concerned, to cap the climax.
All went well at the start; the church was packed; the preacher's text was, "In the form of a dove," and as he piled up his eloquent periods the excitement was strong.
Then the opportune moment arrived—the signal was given—and the packed audience was scared out of its wits on looking up to the ceiling and beholding a cat, with a clothesline around its middle, yowling and spitting, being lowered over the preacher's head.
The preacher called to the sexton in the attic: