come up hyear dis ebenin', an' try ter git erroun' dem s'ords an' dem
famines. Now my skyearts is clar, caze I done 'liver de message. I done
tol' yer whar hit come fum. I tol' yer 'twas in de Book, 'boutn
middle-ways twix' een an' een; an' wedder David writ it or Sam'l writ
it, or Gen'sis writ it or Paul writ it, or Phesians writ it or Loshuns
writ it, dat ain't nudder hyear nor dar; dat don't make no diffunce;
some on 'em writ it, caze hit's sholy in de Book, fur de oberseer's wife
she read hit ter me outn dar; an' I tuck 'tickler notice, too, so's I
could tell yer right whar ter fin' it. An', bredren, I'm er tellin' yer
de truf dis ebenin'; hit's jes 'bout de middle twix' een an' een. Hit's
dar, sho's yer born, an' dar ain't no way fur ter 'sputin' it, nor ter
git roun' it, 'septin' fur ter tu'n fum yer wickedness. An' now, Brudder
Gabe, raise er chune; an' sing hit lively, bredren; an' wile dey's
singin' hit, I want yer ter come up hyear an' fill deze monahs' benches
plum full. Bredren, I want monahs 'pun top er monahs dis ebenin'.
Bredren, I want 'em in crowds. I want 'em in droves. I want 'em in
layers. I want 'em in piles. I want 'em laid 'pun top er one ernudder,
bredren, tell yer can't see de bottumus' monahs. I want 'em piled up
hyear dis ebenin'. I want 'em packed down, mun, an' den tromped on, ter
make room fur de nex' load. Oh, my bredren, come! fur 'dey young men
shall die by de s'ord, an' dey sons an' dey daughters by de famine.'"

The scene that followed baffles all description. Uncle Gabe struck up--

"Oh, lebe de woods uv damnation;
Come out in de fields uv salvation;
Fur de Lord's gwine ter bu'n up creation,
Wen de day uv jedgment come."

"Oh, sinners, yer may stan' dar er laffin',