“What do you mean?” demanded Mrs. Burton.
“Only this; when their own devices fail, they’re in a hurry for the consolations of religion. May I visit the Sunday-school?”
“I suppose I can’t keep you away,” sighed Mrs. Burton, leading the way to the parlor. “Boys,” said she, greeting her nephews, “first we’ll sing a little hymn. What shall it be?”
“Ole Uncle Ned,” said Toddie.
“Oh, that’s not a Sunday song.”
“I fink tizh,” said Toddie, “’cause it sayzh, free or four timezh, ‘He’s gone where de good niggers go,’s an’ dat’s hebben, you know. So it’s a Sunday song.”
“I think ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’s is nicer,” said Budge, “an’ I know it’s a Sunday song, ’cause I’ve heard it in church.”
“Aw wight,” said Toddie; and he started the old air himself, with the words, “There liezh de whiskey-bottle, empty on de sheff,” but was suddenly brought to order by a shake from his aunt, while his uncle danced about the front parlor in an ecstasy not directly traceable to toothache.
“That’s not a Sunday song, either, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton. “The words are real rowdyish. Where did you learn them?”
“Round the corner from our housh,” said Toddie; “an’ you can shing you ole shongs yourseff, if you don’t like mine.”