Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 December 1890 — Called Him to Preach. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Called Him to Preach.

A party of young men, inspired by cariosity, had gone on Sunday to attend a negro camp-meeting held among the cotton plantations in the Red River bottom in Arkansas. Returning home they stopped at the cabin of a squatter and asked for a drink of w ater. The squatter sent his little son to the spring for a bucket of fresh water, and, while waiting for his return, engaged the crowd in conversation. “Whar ilfont yer be’n?” he asked. “To the negro camp-meeting,” some one replied. “Did yer see a gre’t big black, pooch-

month preacher name Henry Miller thar?" “Yes: he preached.” The squatter laughed heartily and said: “Hit’s powerful funny about’at nigger. Some folks ’u’d say bit ’uz weeked, an’ I cain’t he’pit, but I called ’at nigger ter preach merse’f. He wuz monst’us pious an’ wuz er ’zorter an’ er big man at all er meetin’s, but ’e wuzn’ no preacher twell arter I tuck ’im in ban’s. One er mer child’en had be’n sick ’ith tber swamp fever an’ corned powerful nigh er dyin’. Hit wuzn’ gittin’ well, an’ wanted er br’iled squiri. I tuck mer ol’ rifle an’ lit out fur ter kill hit one. I wuz er feeliu’ so good ’at I jest wanted ter holler ca'se ther' leetle feller wuz er gon'ter git well. I felt like er mule whut’s be’n onhitched f'om er stallded waggin. Ez I wuz er trompin’ ’long in ther bottom I heered somebody er choppin’ Hit jist corned ter me es ’at’s er nigger I’ll slip up onter ’im an’ skeer ’im.

“I creeped up, hidin’ erhin’ ther trees, twell I seed ’at hit -wuz Henry Miller er splittin’ nv rails. I sneaked erlong till I wuz in ther top er ther tree ’at ’e’d cut down an’ wuz er choppin’ np. Jist ’en sumpin’ says ter me, ‘ Call ’im ter preach.’ Wife says hit ’uz ther devil. Anyway, I said, jist ez mou’nful ez I conld: “ * Henry Miller.’ “He drapped ’is maul, looked all er roun\ an’ says, s’s’e: “ 4 Who dat callin’ me ? ’ “I says ergin, s’l, ' Henry Miller!’ “I seed ’im trem’le ez ’e says, shakin’ like. 4 Who dot callin’ me ?’ “S’l, ‘Hit’s ther Lawd er talkin’ ter yer.’ “He drapped on 'is knees an’ ’e says, ‘Ye-e-s, Law-aw-aw-d.’ “ST, ‘Henry, mer b’loved son, leave yer ax, yer maul an’ yer wedge; take up mer cross, foiler me an’ preach ther gospel.’ “SVe, ‘Ye-e-s, Law-aw-d.’ “He jist loped offen ther log, thro ther woods fer home, like er 'three p’int buck whut’s be’n shot at. He got ’is mule, went ter Fulton ’at nigEt, corned home two days arter ’ith er pa’r er

license ter preach in ’is saddle-pockets, an’ ’e’s be’n ther leadin’ preacher er ’roun’ yere ever sence. “Yere’s ther wahter. Drink hearty.” Hugh Blake Williamsl

“HE DROPPED ON ’IS KNEES.”

“E’S BEN THER LEADIN’ PREACHER ERROUN’ YERE EVER SENCE.”