“I’ve heerd, boss, dat Marse Horris Greely sed dat ef our foresight wuz es good es our hin’sight we’d be better off by a dam sight, but dat is whar Marse Horris wuz wrong—it wuz my hin’sight dat went back on me, fur in prancin’ an’ backin’ aroun’ I backed dat pack o’ fiahwucks into a lighted candle an’ jes es de congregashun struck up dat good ole hymn, ‘_Shell I be kerried to de skies on flowery beds o’ ease_,’ I heerd sumpin’ goin’ off in my rear like de parked guns at Shiloh an’ I started to de skies sho’ nuff, an’ nuffin but de cealin’ kept me frum gwine on! It looked like ter me fur ten minets I rid de air on fiahwucks. Two cannon crackers tuck off my boots, my pants went out de winder actin’ as de tail ob a skyrocket, a torpedo scattered my stumic till de feathers looked like sno’ fallin’, I wuz sot afiah from my shurt to my whiskers, an’ ef I hadn’t lit in de baptismal pool when I fell, God knows I wouldn’t a bin heah to-night. “I’d bin baptized twice befo, but I nurver seed any candidate go into de water so willing agin. I’ve allers sed emershun wuz de only way o’ salvashun’, an’ now, thank God, I kno’s it! “But so he’p me, boss, dem fiahwucks wuz so spiteful dey eben kep’ a poppin’ under de watah. Dey sed it wuz a sight ter see dey blue balls an’ yaller balls an’ high balls cum bilin’ outen dat baptismal pool an’ sprinklin’ Baptis’ niggers wid Presbeterian dictrine. “When I got up near ’nuff to peep ober de brim, de mos’ o’ de congregashun wuz under de benches, but Br’er Jones had be’n blowed up a-straddle de stove pipe an’ de benzine and bar’s oil dat he’d greesed his hair wid wuz a-fiah. One o’ my boots, wid a skyrocket in it, had caught Sis Tilly in de mouf jes es she opened it to lead in de singin’. She couldn’t talk, but she wuz gwine ’round makin’ signs fur sumbody to git a boot jack an’ pull it out. Nearly eber nigger dar had caught a red ball or a yaller ball an’ wuz bilin’ out o’ doors an’ winders cussin’ Sandy Claws an’ all his kin. “By dis time I wan’t lookin’ fur yellow balls nor black balls, but I sot up to my neck in de watah beggin’ fur a high ball. Some still had sense enuff lef’ to put out de fiah wid watah frum de pool, an’ when dey pulled me out I didn’t hab on nuffin but a dough face, some burnt whiskers an’ patches o’ chicken feathers an’ a leetle skin in spots. “No, boss, nobody b’leeves in Sandy Claws dar now, nor in de preacher dat lied to ’em, nor in me, dat tried to find Sandy an’ found his claws. De fac’ is, de plan ob salvashun is mighty nigh blowed up in dat chu’ch.” BECAUSE By Catherine Carr They were preëminently suited to each other, The Bachelor and The Single Lady. All the other boarders saw that, and they marveled among themselves at the blindness of the two.