Now, dis will cum ter pars: When St. Peter sees Aunt Phillis an’ Uncle Reubin cummin’ ’long he will say, jes’ ez sho’ ez judgmen’ day is cummin’, “Cherrypins an’ serrypins, an’ Ham, de cullud son ub Noahy, bresh de dust fum two ub de bes’ seats in de Lawd’s kitchen fuh dem two saints, an’ tell ’em we gwine ter hab uh festibal!” I wan’ Ham ter set ’long side you an’ pint out Samuel de fus’, an’ secon’, Moses, King Dabid, King Fario, Zackeus de climber, an’ lars’, but not leas’, Ho Ho, an’ you’ll see fum he habin’ whiskus he ain’ no Chine er Japne. Den de profit Noahy will renounce dat King Dabid an’ he son, King Sol’mon, gwine ter sing uh jewette togedda—King David, ub cose, playin’ on his hyarp ub uh thousan’ strings; an’ I ’specks dat sweetes’ son ub Noahy, Ham, will play de banjo. Bless meh soul an’ body, an’ meh body an’ soul, belubbed, what uh festibal hit will be! Sistus, I kin see ’em all.
Tilly Mink: “Yas, Brer Rasmus, all clustah’d ’roun’ de pul-pit.”
John Poney: “Kin you see me, Brer Rasmus?”
No; I am lis’nin’ ter ’em talk. Dear little Jona will tell erboutin’ his sea voyage; St. Peter, dat lubly ’possel, ub how many shirks he kotch an’ kilt; Little Jack-a-ass erboutin how slippery wuz de sycamo’ tree he clum; Jacob erboutin de lubly streeked, striped an’ speckled cattle he riz; Nimrod erboutin coon dogs, King Sol’mon erboutin he thorrybreds—brudderin’ I cud preach fum dis tex’ fuh uh monf an’ nebba git rejected, but I mus’ migrate ter dem dat ain’ bin ’mersed. Wha will dey be when dat sweet festibal is gwine on? Cole ez hit is—an’ dar’s fo’ back logs on de fire—I say cole ez hit is, tu cole fuh uh ’possum ter be out, yit I feel so het up fum dis discose dat I kin almos’ tase de red hot melted lead, an’ sizzlin’ brimstone dat de sinnah hab ter resis’ on.
“You kyant eat uh hoe-cake but once!” so cum ter de moanah’s bench now; cum while de hoe-cake ub salbation is brown wid faith, an’ all kivver’d ober wid de graby ub redemption, an’ hab yo’ fingahs filled wid streams ub goodness. When you go befo’ St. Peter, de gre’t fisherman, he got Moses stan’in’ by he side wid dat curisome rod ub his’n.[13] Den Moses tap you on de han’ wid he rod, an’ ef’n you good yo’ fingah nails will fly back, an’ Moses will pull fum yo’ fingahs gre’t long strings ub goodness; an’ ef’n you bad, gre’t long black bad strings.
