“You go ’long by de road an’ you see an ol’ shabby tree a-standin’ in de o’chud. It ain’t ha’dly got a apple on it. Its leaves are put’ nigh all gone. You look at de branches, dey’s all rough an’ crookid. De tree’s all full of sticks an’ stones an’ wiah an’ ole tin cans. Hit’s all bruised up an’ hit’s a ha’d thing to look at altogether. You look at de tree an’ whut do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say de tree ain’t no ’count, fu’ ‘by deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, my frien’s, you wrong. Dat tree did ba’ good fruit, an’ by hits fruit was hit knowed. John tol’ Gawge an’ Gawge tol’ Sam, an’ evah one dat passed erlong de road had to have a shy at dat fruit. Dey be’n th’owin’ at dat tree evah sence hit begun to ba’ fruit, an’ dey’s ’bused hit so dat hit couldn’t grow straight to save hits life. Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah, all bent ovah yo’ staff an’ a-groanin’ wif yo’ burdens? Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah, dat yo’ steps are a-weary an’ you’s longin’ fu’ yo’ home? Have dey be’n th’owin’ stones an’ cans at you? Have dey be’n beatin’ you wif sticks? Have dey tangled you up in ol’ wiah twell you couldn’t move han’ ner foot? Have de way be’n all trouble? Have de sky be’n all cloud? Have de sun refused to shine an’ de day be’n all da’kness? Don’t git werry, be consoled. Whut de mattah! Why, I tell you you ba’in’ good fruit, an’ de debbil cain’t stan’ it—‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’ “You go ’long de road a little furder an’ you see a tree standin’ right by de fence. Standin’ right straight up in de air, evah limb straight out in hits place, all de leaves green an’ shinin’ an’ lovely. Not a stick ner a stone ner a can in sight. You look ’way up in de branches, an’ dey hangin’ full o’ fruit, big an’ roun’ an’ solid. You look at dis tree an’ whut now do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say dis is a good tree, fu’ ‘by deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, you wrong ag’in, my frien’s. De apples on dat tree are so sowah dat dey’d puckah up yo’ mouf wuss ’n a green pu’simmon, an’ evahbidy knows hit, by hits fruit is hit knowed. Dey don’t want none o’ dat fruit, an’ dey pass hit by an’ don’t bothah dey haids about it. “Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl’ sailin’ on flowery beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you’s a-walkin’ in de sof’ pafs an’ a-dressin’ fine. Ain’t nobidy a-troublin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-backbitin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-castin’ yo’ name out as evil. You all right an’ movin’ smoov. But I want you to stop an’ ’zamine yo’se’ves. I want you to settle whut kin’ o’ fruit you ba’in’, whut kin’ o’ light you showin’ fo’f to de worl’. An’ I want you to stop an’ tu’n erroun’ when you fin’ out dat you ba’in’ bad fruit, an’ de debbil ain’t bothahed erbout you ’ca’se he knows you his’n anyhow. ‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’” The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.