Uncle Reubin: “Now, you begin ter see de application. Jordan, wha’ John de Babtis, wuz ’mersed, is fresh watah. Not far fum Jordan is de dead sea, which has mo’ salt dan Miles Ribber, kase it will float uh man same ez uh egg; but de ’Postles tuck de fresh watah, kase I hab no doubt skirks wuz bad in dem days, an’ prob’ly wusser, ’speci’lly in de dead sea. Jes’ think ub our dear sistus, trem’lin’, soaked wid faith an’ salbation, speckin’ ev’y minit ter hab deah legs bit orf! Da ain’ uh sistuh in dis chuch dat ain’ had chills dis spring. De cold watah got nuffin ter do wid it; it’s shirk fright; dat’s what’s de matter wid ’em. But blessin’s cum in disguise, an’ Providence mus’ hab brought dis ’bate, fuh it sot me ter readin’, thinkin’ an’ prayin’, an’ I am confluent we will all hab ter be babtize a-_fresh_; den da will be mo’ moners, mo’ shoutin’, an’ bless Gord, no shirk fright. I shall hab mo’ ter say ef’n de application ain’ well ondastood.” Hesakiah Sprouts (in a whisper): “Pawson Demby, uh young man jes’ cum in wants ter speak ter you. He is bashful; bin peepin’ an’ lis’nin’ at de do’. Mebby Uncle Reubin’s speechifyin’ hab made salbation in his heart.” “Jes’ so! Young man, who you ’long ter? Mars John Skinner? Well, wispuh what’s in yo’ heart; don’ be feared, kase salbation’s free!” “Pawson Demby, yo’ dogs is treed uh coon ’cross Peach Blossom Creek. Meh boat is on dis side.” Pawson Demby: “Belubbed sistus, as Brer Viney’s gre’t an’ pow’ful speech has fuh _ever_ ’cided dis question fuh fresh watah, it is move, secon’, an’ carried, dat dis meetin’ ’jurn.” ROMP’S MUSTAKE. Lars Sunday night me[6] an’ Fred went ter de swamp An’ it wan’ many minits fo’ we heahd ole Romp Talkin’ ter hissef, an’ tree’in’ up’n uh pine Dat wuz all obergrow’d wid uh big grapevine. Speak ter him Romp! Mus’ be uh ’possum, Fred, De way dat dog is cacklin’ an’ losin’ ub he hed. An’ feedin’ on dese fros-bit grapes an’ fat Ef he won’ meck yo’ lip go flip-flop, teck dis hat. Well, it won’ be long fo’ de breck ub day; An’ de possum, showly, he kyant git ’stray, So den I’ll clime dat little black-gum tree; Dat pine’s too full ub grapevines futto see. De day broke clare, an’ up’n de tree I clum, An’ in dem grapevines, twixt de pine an’ gum, A ressin ub his’self, yaller, slick an’ fat, Da lay uh gre’t big ornry Thormas cat! I tuck uh match an’ lit de varmint’s tail, An’ when he jump po’ Romp an’ Fred dey wail; Dat yaller Thormas cat, on fire, ub cose, Dey tuck to be uh red-hot, flamin’ ghose! Romp ain’ no use fuh night dog any mo’, An’ neber ter de swamp he wants ter go; An’ when he comes uh cross uh wile grapevine He al’ays gits relarmed an’ ’gins ter growl an’ whine.