UNCLE SNAKE-BIT BOB’S SUNDAY-SCHOOL.

There was no more faithful slave in all the Southland than old Uncle Snake-bit Bob.  He had been bitten by a rattlesnake when he was a boy, and the limb had to be amputated, and its place was supplied with a wooden peg.  There were three or four other “Bobs” on the plantation, and he was called Snake-bit to distinguish him.  Though lame, and sick a good deal of his time, his life had not been wasted, nor had he been a useless slave to his master.  He made all of the baskets that were used in the cotton-picking season, and had learned to mend shoes; besides that, he was the great horse-doctor of the neighborhood, and not only cured his master’s horses and mules, but was sent for for miles around to see the sick stock; and then, too, he could re-bottom chairs, and make buckets and tubs and brooms; and all of the money he made was his own:  so the old man had quite a little store of gold and silver sewed up in an old bag and buried somewhere—­nobody knew where except himself; for Uncle Snake-bit Bob had never married, and had no family ties; and, furthermore, he was old Granny Rachel’s only child, and Granny had died long, long ago, ever since the children’s mother was a baby, and he had no brothers or sisters.  So, having no cause to spend his money, he had laid it up until now he was a miser, and would steal out by himself at night and count his gold and silver, and chuckle over it with great delight.

But he was a very good old man; as Mammy used to say, “he wuz de piuses man dar wuz on de place;” and he had for years led in “de pra’r-meetin’s, and called up de mo’ners.”

One evening, as he sat on a hog-pen talking to Uncle Daniel, who was a preacher, they began to speak of the wickedness among the young negroes on the plantation.

“Pyears ter me,” said Uncle Bob, “ez ef dem niggers done furgot dey got ter die; dey jes er dancin’ an’ er cavortin’ ev’y night, an’ dey’ll git lef’, mun, wheneber dat angel blow his horn.  I tell you what I ben er stud’n, Brer Dan’l.  I ben er stud’n dat what’s de matter wid deze niggers is, dat de chil’en ain’t riz right.  Yer know de Book hit sez ef yer raise de chil’en, like yer want ’em ter go, den de ole uns dey won’t part fum hit; an’, sar, ef de Lord spars me tell nex’ Sunday, I ’low ter ax marster ter lemme teach er Sunday-school in de gin-house fur de chil’en.”

Major Waldron heartily consented to Uncle Bob’s proposition, and had the gin-house all swept out for him, and had the carpenter to make him some rough benches.  And when the next Sunday evening came around, all of the little darkies, with their heads combed and their Sunday clothes on, assembled for the Sunday-school.  The white children begged so hard to go too, that finally Mammy consented to take them.  So when Uncle Snake-bit Bob walked into the gin-house, their eager little faces were among those of his pupils.  “Now, you all sot down,” said Uncle Bob, “an’ ’have