FOLKS FROM DIXIE
you wrong ag'in, my frien's. De apples on dat tree are so sowah dat dey 'd puckah up yo' mouf wuss'n a green pu'simmon, an' evahbidy knows hit, by hits fruit is hit knowed. Dey don't want none o' dat fruit, an' dey pass hit by an' don't bothah dey haids about it.
"Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl' sailin' on flowery beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you 's a-walkin' in de sof' pafs an' a-dressin' fine. Ain't nobidy a-troublin' you, nobidy ain't a-backbitin' you, nobidy ain't a-castin' yo' name out as evil. You all right an' movin' smoov. But I want you to stop an' 'zamine yo'se'ves. I want you to settle whut kin' o' fruit you ba'in,' whut kin' o' light you showin' fo'f to de worl. An' I want you to stop an' tu'n erroun' when you fin' out dat you ba'in' bad fruit, an' de debbil ain't bothahed erbout you 'ca'se he knows you his'n anyhow. 'By deir fruits shell you know dem.'"
The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.
"Wha'd you think o' dat sermon?" asked Sister Williams of one of her good friends; and the good friend answered,—
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