Dat tuhkey wuz er big gobbleh, an’ dere wuz nobody but me an’ Job dere, an’ I seasoned dat buhd wif de good wine w’at Job hed stole, an’ admonishuns tuh be good an’ wahnin’s f’om de wrath tuh come. Hit wuz er hahd pull, but I finished dat tuhkey in spite uv Job’s hints dat he ’spected hit tuh las’ him er week. Hit sho’ly would hev tasted good if hit hadn’t b’en stoled an’ I hed tuh drink up de wine w’at he hed ’prop’iated f’om somewhere, but de sauce uv a deed well did an’ a sinneh rebuked, almos’ made hit relish, an’ I held out tuh de end. Now I’s told you-alls ’bout dis tuh show you how tuh meet de tempteh, an’ if Job wuz er comin’ back heah in de sperit an’ you-alls treated him severe he’d go back tuh de place wheah de Lawd put him, an’ let you-alls alone. Think uv ol’ Job Mixon as er angel uv light, ol’ thief Job sent back heah tuh talk tuh you folkses an’ tell you w’at you-alls done did an w’at you gwine tuh do! Yas, I sees hit, I sees hit! Ol’ Job, w’at man hed tuh keep in jail mos’ uv de time, an’ w’at wuz a debbil in de flesh. De Lawd tried tuh kill him time Kunnel Simpson shot him in he henhouse; an’ tuk ’nutheh tuhn at him de time he got dat whisky. De Lawd knowed he wuzn’t fit foh dis wuhld w’en He made dat wild mule w’at Job stole fall on him an’ den tromp on him, an’ if hit hed be’n anybody but Job, he’d hev died. A angel uv light, an’ foh fohty yeahs de Lawd tried tuh git him erway f’om you chillen, tuh gib you-all a chanst foh glohy! An’ he’d ’a be’n alive now if hit hadn’t be’n foh shootin’ at a w’ite man an’ hangin’ three days ’foah anybody foun’ him. Yas suh, no ord’nary hangin’ would hev killed dat niggah, an’ de Lawd knowed w’at He ’bout keepin’ any uv us f’om findin’ him afteh he wuz hung. Claihvoyins! Meejums! Sayoncies! Sperits an’ table rappin’s, an’ “_One rap A, two rap B, an’ three rap C!_” Sperityilizzum, an’ nex’ thing Christian Science an’ some uv you advanced niggahs will be goin’ ’round heah wid yoah jaw tied up, groanin’ wid de toofache an’ sayin’ dey ain’ no sich thing es pain; some uv you-alls wid razur blades in yoah annatohmmy a-gnawin’ at yoah vitals, sayin’ hit am ’maginary; dat de will rules an you kain’t hurt de flesh! Listen tuh me, you niggahs! Heah yoah pasture! Keep ’way f’om sich contrapshuns uv de debbil! Sen’ ol’ Job back tuh hell wheah he belong an’ keep ’way f’om de w’ite folkses’ fads! Go on wid yoah conjurin’, if you mus’ hev er rickreation, an’ weah yoah graveyahd rabbit feets, an’ yoah little bags uv niggah wool; but keep ’way f’om sperityilizzum an’ Christian Science an’ all dere attendant evils; eschew, as de poet say, dey alluremen’s, ’less some uv yoah wives an sistehs an’ daughters tuhn out er Mizziz Eddy an’ tries teh lead you in pashtuhs new er indulges in holy ghos’ chillen—dey’s nuff not ’counted foh ’thout that.