nse out of his own brain. If he could
not do that, they wanted no more praying or preaching from him.

Uncle Peter made no answer, but, ascending the little pulpit, he put
his hat on the bench behind him where it was used to repose, took out
his red cotton handkerchief and blew his nose in his accustomed way,
and looked about him. The house was crowded. Even Aunt Rebecca was
there.

After a deliberate survey of his audience, the preacher spoke:
"Brev'eren an' sisters, I see afore me Brudder Bill Hines, who kin
read de Bible, an' has got one. Ain't dat so, Brudder?"

Bill Hines having nodded and modestly grunted assent, the preacher
continued. "An' dars' Ann' Priscilla's boy, Jake, who ain't a brudder
yit, though he's plenty old 'nuf, min', I tell ye; an' he kin read de
Bible, fus' rate, an' has read it ter me ober an' ober ag'in. Ain't
dat so, Jake?"

Jake grinned, nodded, and hung his head, very uncomfortable at being
thus publicly pointed out.

"An' dar's good ole Aun' Patty, who knows more Scripter dan ennybuddy
h'yar, havin' been teached by de little gals from Kunnel Jasper's an'
by dere mudders afore 'em. I reckin she know' de hull Bible straight
froo, from de Garden of Eden to de New Jerus'lum. An' dar are udders
h'yar who knows de Scripters, some one part an' some anudder. Now I
axes ebery one ob you all wot know de Scripters ef he don' 'member
how de Bible tells how our Lor' when he was on dis yearth cas' seben
debbils out o' Mary Magdalum?"

A murmur of assent came from the congregation, Most of them remembered
that.

"But did enny ob you ebber read, or hab read to you, dat he ebber cas'
'em out o' enny udder woman?"

Negative grunts and shakes of the head signified that nobody had ever
heard of this.

"Well, den," said the preacher, gazing blandly around, "all de udder
women got 'em yit."

A deep silence fell upon the assembly, and in a few moments an elderly
member arose. "Brudder Pete," he said, "I reckin you mought as well
gib out de hyme."

A DOG'S TALE[1]

[Footnote 1: 1903]

_Mark Twain_ (1835)

I

My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a
Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me; I do not know these nice
distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning
nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and
see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so
much education. But, indeed, it was not