You know de Bible say--hit say,"--here the Persimmon's voice
dropped a tone lower, in unconscious imitation of negro preachers,--"la-
ay not up yo' treasure on uth, wha moss do corrup', an' thieves break
th'ugh _an'_ steal."
Came a general nodding and agreement of soft, blurry voices.
"'At sho whut it say, black man!"
"Sho do!"
"Lawd God loves a nigger on a street corner same as He do a millionaire
in a six-cylinder, Peter."
"Sho do, black man; but He's jes about de onlies' thing on uth 'at do."
"Well, I don' know," came a troubled rejoinder. "Thaiuh 's de debbil,
ketchin' mo' niggers nowadays dan he do white men, I 'fo' Gawd
b'liebes."
"Well, dat's because dey _is_ so many mo' niggers dan dey is white
folks," put in a philosopher.
"Whut you say 'bout dat, Brudder Peter?" inquired the Persimmon,
seriously. None of this discussion was either derision or burlesque.
None of the crowd had the slightest feeling that these questions were
not just as practical and important as the suggestion that they all go
to work.
When Peter realized how their ignorant and undisciplined thoughts flowed
off into absurdities, and that they were entirely unaware of it, it
brought a great depression to his heart.
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