he got up to preach he sez, 'Friends,' sez he, 'my tex' is
Chillblains. They ain't no use a-preachin' religion to men whose
whole thought is set on their feet. Now, you fellows git some
soft-soap an' pour it in yer shoes, an' jes' keep them shoes on till
yer feet gits well, an' the nex' time I come 'round yer minds'll be
better prepared to receive the word of the Lord.' Now, that's the
way I feel 'bout this here Sunday-school. First an' fo'most, I am
goin' to learn you all manners. Jes' one thought I want you to take
away, an' that is, it's sinful to fuss. Ma use' to say livin' was
like quiltin'--you orter keep the peace an' do 'way with the
scraps. Now, what do I want you all to remember?"

"Don't fuss!" came the prompt answer.

"That's right; now we'll sing 'Pull fer the shore.'"

When the windows had ceased to rattle from the vibrations of the
lusty chorus, Mrs. Wiggs lifted her hands for silence.

"O Lord!" she prayed earnestly, "help these here childern to be good
an' kind to each other, an' to their mas an' their pas. Make 'em
thankful fer whatever they 'are got, even if it ain't but a little.
Show us all how to live like you want us to live, an' praise God
from whom all blessin's flow. Amen."

As the last youngster scampered out of the yard, Mrs. Wiggs turned
to the window where Jim was standing. He had taken no part in the
singing, and was silent and preoccupied. "Jim," said his mother,
trying to look into his face, "you never had on yer overcoat when
you come in. You ain't gone an' sold it?"