Yais, ma'am. I's spied 'im, sittin' in de paw-paw bushes in de springtime, when de snakes a-runnin', an' de jays a-hollerin', and de crick a-talkin' sassy to hisse'f.
He leans nearer, more mysteriously.
En what you s'pose I heerd him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem scan'lous bluejays?
Chants in a high, trilling voice.
"Chillun, chillun, they ain' no Gawd, they ain' no sin nor no jedgment, they's jes' springtime an' happy days, and folks carryin' on. Whar's yo' lil gal, Abe Johnson? Whar's yo' lil sweet-heart gal?" An' me on'y got religion wintah befo', peekin' roun' pie-eyed, skeered good. En fo' you could say "De Lawd's my Shepherd," kerchunk goes de Black Man in de mud-puddle, change' into a big green bullfrog!
Mrs. Beeler.
You just imagined all that.
Uncle Abe.
Indignant.
Jes' 'magine! Don' I know de Devil when I sees him, near 'nough to say "Howdy"?