isseff. 'Our
brudders,' I say, my chil'ren, 'case ebery one dat de Lord hab made am
brudders to you and to me, whedder dey'm bad or good, white or brack.

"Dis young chile, who hab gone 'way and leff his pore fader and mudder
suffrin' all ober wid grief, _he_ hab gone to de Lord, _shore_. _He_
neber done no wrong; he allers 'bey'd his massa, and neber said no hard
word, nor found no fault, not eben w'en de cruel, bad oberseer put de
load so heaby on him dat it kill him. Yes, my brederin and sisters, _he_
hab gone to de Lord; gone whar dey don't work in de swamps; whar de
little chil'ren don't tote de big shingles fru de water up to dar knees.
No swamps am dar; no shingles am dar; dey doan't need 'em, 'case dar de
hous'n haint builded wid hands, for dey'm all builded by de Lord, and
gib'n to de good niggers, ready-made, and for nuffin'. De Lord don't
say, like as ded massa say, 'Pomp, dar's de logs and de shingles' (dey'm
allers pore shingles, de kine dat woant sell; but massa say, 'dey'm good
'nuff for niggers,' ef de roof do leak). De Lord doan't say: 'Now, Pomp,
you go to work and build you' own house; but mine dat you does you,
task all de time, jess de same!' But de Lord--de bressed Lord--He say,
w'en we goes up dar, 'Dar, Pomp, dar's de house dat I'se been a buildin'
for you eber sence 'de foundation ob de worle.' It'm done now, and you
kin cum in; your room am jess ready, and ole Sal and de chil'ren dat I
tuk 'way from you eber so long ago, and dat you mourned ober and cried
ober as ef you'd neber see dem agin, dey'm dar too, all on 'em, a
waitin' for you. Dey'm been fixin' up de house 'spressly for you all
dese long years, and dey'b got it all nice and comfible now.' Yas, my
friends, glory be to Him, dat's what our Heabenly massa say, and who ob
you wouldn't hab sich a massa as dat? A massa dat doan't set you no hard
tasks, and dat gibs you 'nuff to eat, and time to rest and to sing and
to play! A massa dat doan't keep no Yankee oberseer to foller you 'bout
wid de big free-lashed whip; but dat leads you hisseff to de green
pastures and de still waters; and w'en you'm a-faint and a-tired, and
can't go no furder, dat takes you up in his arms, and carries you in his
bosom! What pore darky am dar dat wudn't hab sich a massa? What one ob
us, eben ef he had to work jess so hard as we works now, wudn't tink
heseff de happiest nigger in de hull worle, ef he could hab sich hous'n
to lib in as dem? dem hous'n 'not made wid