gentlemen
walk down to meet us, saying:

"Brother Ryder, we _pre_-sume! Welcome to Dodson's Corner, Brother
Ryder!"

We tie up the nag, loosen her bridle bit, and follow into the
meeting-house--a lofty building unplastered at the roof, whose open
eaves and shingles give place in summer to nests of wasps, and in the
winter to audacious birds, some of which swoop screaming to the
pulpit, and beat the window panes in futile flight. Two uncarpeted
aisles lead respectively to the men's side and the women's side--for,
far be it from us, primitive Methodists, to improve upon the
discipline of Wesley--and midway of each aisle, in square areas, stand
two high stoves, with branching pipes which radiate from their red-hot
cylinders of clay. The pulpit is a square unpainted barricade, with
pedestals on each side for a pair of oil-lamps; the cushions which
sustain the Bible are the gift of young unconverted ladies, and are
sacredly brought to the place of worship each Sunday morning and taken
away in the afternoon.

By the side of the stove the old stewards and the new minister stand
awhile talking over the moral _status_ of the country, the advances
made by the Baptists, and the amount of money contributed by Dodson's
Corner to the various funds of the church. The folk, meanwhile, drop
in by squads, the colored element filling the unsteady gallery in the
rear, until our father looks at his open-faced watch, and says:

"Bless my soul, brethren, it is time to begin the services!"

He ascends into the pulpit. We sit on what is known as the "Amen
side," with our thumb in our button-hole, and watch the process of the
chief steward, who is unlimbering his tuning-fork. He obtains the
pitch of the tune by rapping the pew with this, or, if his teeth be
sound, which is rare, touches the prongs with his incisors. Then his
head--whose baldness, we imagine, arises from the people in the rear
looking all the hair off--is thrown back resolutely, his jaws fly wide
open, he projects a tangible stream of music to the roof, to the alarm
of the birds, and comes to a dead halt at the end of the second
line--for here we have congregational singing, and even those without
hymn books may assist to swell the music. But very often the leader
breaks down; the vanguard of old ladies cannot keep up the tune;
volunteers make desperate efforts to rally the chorus, but retire
discomfited, and the pastor, in addition to praying, reading, and
preaching, mus