Now, when Moses tap yo’ fingahs what he gwine ter pull out? Belubbed, now is de time fuh de checkeration ub yo’ sins. Burhol’ de golden stairs starin’ you in de face! Sistus an’ brudders, you mus’ try ter clim’ dem stairs. Hit will meck yo’ legs, ahms, risses an’ hyarts so strong, jes’ ez it did little Zackasses when he clum dat slippery sycamo’ tree; an’ when you git ter de top ub dem golden stairs you will see fus’ Ole Mars Nickey, Mars Tilghman, Mars Jimmy an’ Miss Henrietta wid wings _’hine_ an’ _befo’_ an’ cullud angels consonly breshin’ de dus’ fum Miss Henrietta’s cheah, an’ lookin’ fuh huh specks, an’ you’ll see de same sweet ringlets in huh hyah. Yas, indeed! kissen huh lubly brow, neck an’ bres’ jes’ like de jewdraps kisses de snowballs in de gyardin. An’ pres’ny she will raise up dem sweet han’s ub huh’n dat’s of’n bin bu’nt meckin’ poltices fuh good an’ bad serbents, open huh cherrypin mouf an’ say, “Dem’s meh good serbents; I knew’d dey’d be heah!” An’ den she’ll call Ham an’ say, “Gib ’em nice seats in de Lawd’s kitchen;” an’ while she gibbin’ orders King Dabid chune he hyarp, Gabriel he trumpet, an’ all de res’ ub de gre’t singers an’ players git ’roun’ de organ. Den King Sol’mon, wid uh pow’ful bow an’ uh book ub songs un’er his arm, ax Miss Henrietta futto play de organ; an’ Miss Henrietta bow fum him an’ look ez prowd ez uh peacock—an’ she wuz, tu! An’, belubbed, she say, “I’m sho’ you ain’ pus-nal, den ergin you ain’ rash-nal, King Sol’mon, kase you had tu many wibes; an’ ef’n it wan’ fuh dem lubly songs ub yo’n I wudn’ fogib yo’ sassyness er keep comp’ny wid you.” Lars’ but not leas’, I ’specks Aunt Phillis sot at de melojin in de Lawd’s kitchen wid all Marster’s good an’ faithful serbents ’roun’ huh, an’ when Moses teck he rod an’ gib dat rod uh twiss, dey all included by singin’ togedda, de fo’f vus ub hym 473: “He suvrin pow’r widout our aid Made us ub clay [dar’s de application] an’ formed us men; An’ when like wan’rin’ sheep we strayed, He fotch us ter his fol’ ergen.” Befo’ we sojourn I fogot ter renounce dat Mage Rudd say de keys ub de heb’nly organ wuz all made ub gole. Yistiddy I ax Mars Pinckney erboutin hit, an’ he say, “Sho’! Da wuz uh _Key_ made ub gole dat writ uh gre’t an’ pow’ful song.” Think ub dat! I dunno what he mean ezac’ly, but I s’pose hit sompin in rebellation. [Illustration: OLE MISS. (Miss Henrietta.) ] JUBA VINEY’S YALLER PANTS. Flowers were fading. Roses, hyacinths, honeysuckle, buttercups and bluebells all gave “sigh for sigh.” ’Twas the last of summer—the hour when birds fly homeward to their nests, wandering bees seek their hives, chickens their roosts. ’Twas twilight, and its dews bathed the blooming clematis, climbing and caressing the latticed porch; a wooing breeze wafted its perfume through Otwell House, and awoke the waves on the slumbering river.