right now, the Babtists is. What you astin' fer your eatin' apples?
Whew! My souls alive! I don't wonder you grocery storekeepers git rich
in a hurry. No, I guess you needn't send 'ny up. Taste too strong o'
money. Don't have no good apples now no more anyways. All so dried up
and pethy. An' what is it but a theayter, I'd like to know? Weth your
lectures about the Ar'tic regions an' your mum-socials, an' all like
that, chargin' money fer to git in the meetin' house. I tell you what it
is, Brother Littell, the women folks 'd take the money they fritter away
on ribbons and artificial flowers an' gold an'costly apparel, which I
have saw them turned away from the love-feast fer wearin', an' 'ud give
it in fer quarterage an' he'p support the preachin' of the Word, they
wouldn't need to be no shows in the meetin' house an' they 'd be more
expeerimental religion."

Abel Horn (Abel led the singing in meeting, and had a loud bass voice;
he always began before everybody and ended after everybody) was standing
behind Uncle Billy, and Lycurgus could see him with his head juked
forward and his eyebrows up and his mouth wide open in silent laughter,
very disconcerting to Brother Littell, who didn't want to anger Uncle
Billy, and maybe lose his trade by grinning in his face.

"An' now you got to go an' put up a Christmas tree right in the altar,"
stormed Uncle Billy, "an' dike it all out with pop-corn an' candles.
You're gittin' as bad 's the Catholics, every bit. Worse, I say, becuz
they never had the Gospel light, an' is jist led round by the priest an'
have to pay to git their sins forgive. But you, you're a-walkin'
right smack dab into it, weth your eyes open, teachin' fer Gospel the
inventions o' men."

"W'y what, Uncle Billy?"

"W'y, this here Santy Claus a-climbin' down a chimley an' a-cuttin' up
didoes fer to make them little ones think they is a reel Santy Claus
'cuz they seen him to the meetin' house. Poot soon when they git a
little older 'n' they find out how you been afoolin' 'em about Santy
Claus, they'll wonder if what you been a-tellin' 'em about the Good Man
ain't off o' the same bolt o' goods, an' another one o' them cunningly
devised fables. Think they'll come any blessin' on tellin' a lie? An'
a-actin' it out? No, sir. No, sir. Ain't ary good thing to a lie, no way
you kin fix it. How kin they be? Who's the father of lies? W'y the Old
Scratch! That's who. An' here you go a--"

The old man was so wroth that he