In the afternoon we present ourselves at Sunday-school, and as the preacher’s sons are supposed to be first-class ecclesiastical scholars, are put in the Bible-class.  Here we surprise everybody by the quantity of verses we know by heart, and get many red and blue tickets for our reward.  It must be confessed that we had been twice before paid for the same lesson, it being our perquisite to carry all that we know from school to school.  We see Margot among the girls, swinging her feet under the seat as she hummingly commits her lesson to memory, and as her feet are very pretty, they do not perhaps move unconsciously.  But Josh and we have quite a battle as to Margot, Josh saying, “She’s my girl,” and we averring that “we know better—­she’s mine,” until finally our sister disposes of the matter by betraying us to the little coquette, whereat we are both ashamed, and go home hastily.

We feed and curry the horse by turns, and hunt eggs in the stable with boisterous rivalry, and have quite a contest as to who shall go down upon “the circuit” first, which is at last settled in favor of the first person.

On the appointed Sunday we rise betimes, “gear up” the nag to the sulky, and depositing a carpet-stool in the foot, sit upon it between our father’s legs, and trot out of town at a respectably slow gait to clear the preacher of any suspicion of keeping a fast horse.  Fairly out of town, however, we switch up somewhat, ourself watching over the dasher the clods and dust thrown from the mare’s shoes, and our father humming snatches of hymns, with his grave eyes twinkling.

We say “How de do,” of course, to every passer-by, as it is the pride of the profession to lead the etiquette of the country; and, passing remarks upon the badness of the fences, the staunchness of the barns, and the coziness of the dwellings, soon leave the cultivated high-road for one of the by-ways which lead down the sparsely-settled “Neck.”  The sombre pine forests gather about us; a squirrel or two runs across the route, and a solitary crow caws in the tree-top; we hear the loud “tap-tap-tap” of a woodpecker, and see through the sinuous aisles of firs some groups of negroes pattering to church.  The men take off their hats obsequiously, and the women duck their heads, and our father says benignantly, “Going to church, boys? that’s right!  I like to see you honor the Great Master!” At which the younger Africans show their teeth, and the more forward patriarchs reply, “Yes, massar, bress de Lord!”

So the teams increase in number like the wayfarers, all with the same object in view, until we see the church at last, standing behind a line of whitewashed palings, flanked by less pretentious worm fences, and in the rear a long shed for horses, open in front, shadows the few tomb memorials of stone and stake.

Several lads and worldlings at the gate, slashing their boots with riding-whips, make obeisance, while two or three plain old gentlemen walk down to meet us, saying: