“You-all know how ’tis with the gris’-mills round yer; some of ’em is run by a turbine wheel and some by a overshot wheel and Captain Campbell he’s jes’ sot up a undershot wheel. But if the day of meracles wasn’t past and some of us should stop on our way home from the mill and leave ole Mis’ Jimson a bag of meal, it would keep her and her ole cow from starvin’ plumb to death and she’d never ask which mill ground that ar grist. And in my opinion that’s the way ’tis with these yer diff’rent religious secks we’ve got in Junaluska; they each turn their crank in their own way but there ain’t much choice in the grist they turn out; that is to say, neighbours, if you judge a man from his outgoin’s and his incomin’s it would take more than human jedgment to tell whether he’s been ground by the Piscopals or the Methdises or the Presaterians or the Baptises. “When we git riled, Presaterian cussin’ don’t sound noways diff’rent from Methdis’ cussin’ and a wayfarin’ man in Junaluska could never tell by lookin’ at the children’s frocks and faces whether their mothers believe that sprinklin’ or duckin’ is the tellin’est means of grace; and Baptis’ hogs and cattle left out on the mountings all winter without fodder and shelter looks jes’ as gaunted-up when spring comes as the Piscopals’ does. I’m beginnin’ to think, neighbours, that there’s right much more religion in _doin’_ then there is in fussin’ about beliefs.” “Amen!” shouted a Methodist brother and the speaker gained courage. “I’d like,” he went on, “to jine hands and pull together again, and don’t meddle with each others’ beliefs, till some one’s deeds shows that his creed is the best. I’d like not to worship any longer in meetin’-houses that ain’t as snug as a barn ought to be. All of us together can keep one building painted and the roof tight and the windows sashed. I’d like not to have a hand in starvin’ or freezin’ any more preachers, but to make one preacher comf’table right here in Junaluska—we done it once and we done it without any outside help too—and we can do it ag’in. I’d like to have him always right yer on the ground to christen our children, to bury our dead, and to marry our young folks. For myself, I ain’t carin’ what college turned him out so’s he’s a sure-’nough Christian and cares more about right livin’ than he does about beliefs.” By the wall, the only occupant of a bench with legs of assorted lengths and easily tilted, sat Deacon Higgins who here put in a demurrer. Jolting back and forth, bringing the bench legs and his feet resoundingly upon the floor to mark his time, he sang, his eyes fixed upon a rafter and his heart upon opposition: “‘I’m Meth’dis born an Pres’terian bred, But Meth’dis will I die!’ “I’m a shoutin’ Meth’dis.” “Well, you could continue on a shouting Meth’dis!”