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"Aun' Patsy," said Uncle Isham, after gazing silently in the fire for a minute or two, "dar was a brudder wot come up from 'Melia County to de las' big preachin', an' he tole in his sarment a par'ble wot I b'lieve will 'ply fus rate to dis 'casion. I's gwine to tell you dat." "Go 'long wid it," said Aunt Patsy.
Dar's a lesson in dis h'yar par'ble wot 'ud do you good to clap to your heart, Aun' Patsy. Don' you be gwine roun' tryin' to help udder people jus' as you is all ready to go inter de gate ob heaben. Ef you try any ob dat dar foolishness, de fus' thing you know you'll find dat gate shet." "Is dat your 'Melia County par'ble?" asked the old woman. "Dat's it," answered Isham.
But if 'ee come to Bible, I do say Aunt put me in mind of the par'ble of the talents, she do, for what you give her she make ten of, while other folks be losing what they got.
An' jes' as you was comin' up I was gwine ter tell him a par'ble 'bout sticken ter truf. An' if you's got time, Mahs'r Morris, I'd be pow'ful glad ter tell you de par'ble, an' let you 'cide 'tween us." "Very well," said Mr. Morris, "go on with your parable." "Dis yere par'ble," said Grandison, "has got a justifyin' meanin' in it, an' it's 'bout a bar an' a' possum.
Here one day when he was first took sick, before he got so deef yet, I went to see him, and the Evangelical preacher was there, readin' to him that there piece of Scripture where, you know, them that worked a short time was paid the same as them that worked all day. The preacher he sayed he thought that par'ble might fetch him 'round oncet to a death-bed conwersion.
"And now, Grandison," said Mr. Morris, "where is the moral of that parable?" "De moral is dis," said Grandison; "stick ter de truf. If de 'possum had tole de truf, an' said he was alibe, de bar couldn't eat him no more'n he did eat him; no bar could do dat. An' I axes you, Mahs'r Morris, don' dat par'ble show dat eb'rybody oughter stick ter de truf, no matter what happens."
Morris' fields, when Brother 'Bijah came along and sat upon the fence. "Brudder Gran'son," said he, when the ploughman had reached the end of the furrow and was preparing to turn, "jes' you let your hoss res' a minnit till I tells you a par'ble." "Wot par'ble?" said Grandison, in a tone of unconcern, but stopping his horse, all the same. "Why, dis one!" said 'Bijah.
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