“How duz you tell ’em?”
“Well, ser, de Baptist chitlins has bin more in de water, you see, an’ dey’s a little whiter.”
“But, how duz I know dat dey is Meth-diss?”
“Well, ser, dat hog was raised by Uncle Jake Bemis, one of de most shoutin’ Methodist in de Zion connection. Well, you see, ser, de hog pen was right close to de house, an’ dat hog was so knowin’ dat when Uncle Jake went to prayers, ef dat hog was squeelin’ he’d stop. Why, ser, you could hardly get a grunt out of dat hog till Uncle Jake was dun his prayer. Now, ser, ef dat don’t make him a Methodist hog, what will?”
“Weigh me out four pounds, ser.”
“Here’s your fresh chitlins, Baptist chitlins, Methodist chitlins, all good an’ sweet.”
And in an hour’s time the peddler, with his empty tub upon his head, was making his way out of the street, singing,—
“Methodist chitlins, Baptist chitlins,
Who’ll jine de Union?”
Hearing the colored cotton-growers were to have a meeting that night, a few miles from the city, and being invited to attend, I embraced the opportunity. Some thirty persons were assembled, and as I entered the room, I heard them chanting—
Sing yo’ praises! Bless de Lam!
Getting plenty money!
Cotton’s gwine up—’deed it am!
People, ain’t it funny?