"Yes, suh, fu' a while, anyhow."
"Uncle Simon, aren't you losing your religion?"
"Losin' my u'ligion? Who, me losin' my u'ligion! No, suh."
"Well, aren't you afraid you'll lose it on the Sundays that you spend out of your meeting-house?"
"Now, Mas' Gawge, you a white man, an' you my mastah, an' you got larnin'. But what kin' o' argyment is dat? Is dat good jedgment?"
"Well, now if it isn't, you show me why, you're a logician." There was a twinkle in the eye of George Marston as he spoke.
"No, I ain' no 'gician, Mastah," the old man contended. "But what kin' o' u'ligion you spec' I got anyhow? Hyeah me been sto'in' it up fu' lo, dese many yeahs an' ain' got enough to las' ovah a few Sundays. What kin' o' u'ligion is dat?"
The master laughed, "I believe you've got me there, Uncle Simon; well go along, but see that your flock is well tended."
"Thanky, Mas' Gawge, thanky. I'll put a shepherd in my place dat'll put de food down so low dat de littles' lambs kin enjoy it, but'll mek it strong enough fu' de oldes' ewes." And with a profound bow the old man went down the steps and hobbled away.
As soon as Uncle Simon was out of sight, George Marston threw back his head and gave a long shout of laughter.