“It’s de Debbil’s bad luck! fo’ I seen dat plate gwoine down on de flo’; but I sung to de Laud, an’ He’ll break de cha’m,” said Auntie, with the evident satisfaction of one who has been at once shrewd and dutiful. (It is thought an ill omen to see crockery fall, if it breaks.)
“Auntie, I shall like mighty well to see dat chariot comin’, when I sho’ de Laud is in it, said Brother Johnson,” the class leader, who was one of the workmen, “but jes at dis pertickeler time I wants to be gnawin’ one o’ dem cawn-cobs in dat skillet.”
“A wicked an’ a glutton man de Laud He despise,” she retorted, as she arose, and casting a reproving glance upon the offender proceeded to “dish up” the repast. Meanwhile Brother Gibson struck up the following:
“I lub my sistah, dat I do!
“Hope my sistah may lub me too:
“If yo’ get dar yo’ gwoine to sing an’ tell
“De fo’ arch-angels to tune de bell.”
Supper was announced just as the sun reached the “hour mark” upon the cabin floor, which had done duty as indicator of the time for the evening meal for many months; and further musical exercises were indefinitely postponed.
The repast had not yet been disposed of when the voice of a man was heard calling, “Whoop! whoop!”
“That is Den Bardun,” said Uncle Jesse, as he sprung from the table to the door.
“Hello! What’s wanted?” he shouted in reply.
“Man here from Baconsville wants help. Says they’re killing all the colored people over there. Will you go?”