, an' dem few uv us wat is godly--me an' Brer
Snake-bit Bob an' Sis Haly an' Brer Gabe, an' Brer Lige an' Brer
One-eyed Pete, an' Sis Rachel (Mammy) an' Sis Hannah--we're gwine put in
licks fur yer dis ebenin'. Oh, my frens, yer done hyeard de message. Oh,
spar' us de s'ords an de famines! don't drive de Lord fur ter use 'em!
Come up hyear now dis ebenin', an' let us all try ter hep yer git thu.
Leave yer dancin' an' yer singin' an' yer playin'; leave yer whiskey an'
yer cussin' an' yer swearin', an' tu'n yer min's ter de s'ords an' de
famines.

"Wen de Lord fotches dem s'ords outn Eden, an' dem famines outn Egyp',
an' tu'n 'em erloose on dis plantation, I tell yer, mun, dar's gwine be
skyeared niggers hyear. Yer won't see no dancin' den; yer won't hyear no
cussin', nor no chickens hollin' uv er night; dey won't be no reel
chunes sung den; yer'll want ter go ter prayin', an' yer'll be er
callin' on us wat is stedfus in de faith fur ter hep yer; but we can't
hep yer den. We'll be er tryin' on our wings an' er floppin' 'em" ("Yes,
bless God!" thus Uncle Snake-bit Bob), "an' er gittin' ready fur ter
start upuds! We'll be er lacin' up dem golden shoes" ("Yes, marster!"
thus Mammy), "fur ter walk thu dem pearly gates. We can't stop den. We
can't 'liver no message den; de Book'll be shot. So, bredren, hyear it
dis ebenin'. 'Dey young men shall die by de s'ord, an' dey sons an' dey
daughters by de famine.'

"Now, I've said ernuff; dey's no use fur ter keep er talkin', an' all
you backslidin' chu'ch membahs, tremblin' sinners, an' weepin' monahs,
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