No response, save a smothered giggle from two of the little girls.

“Don’t you all remember what the Lord give Moses up on the mountain?”

A hand went up in the corner, and an eager voice cried: 

“Yas’m, I know!  Lord give Moses ten tallers, an’ he duveled ’em.”

Before Mrs. Wiggs could enter into an argument concerning this new version of sacred history, she was hit in the eye with a paper wad.  It was aimed at Billy, but when he dodged she became the victim.  This caused some delay, for she had to bathe the injured member, and during the interval the Sunday-school became riotous.

“Mith Wiggs, make Tommy thop thpittin’ terbaccer juice in my hat!”

“Miss Wiggs, I know who hit you!”

“Teacher, kin I git a drink?”

It was not until Mrs. Wiggs, with a stocking tied over her eye, emerged from the bedroom and again took command that order was restored.

“Where is Bethlehem?” she began, reading from an old lesson-paper.

“You kin search me!” promptly answered Chris.

She ignored his remark, and passed to the next, who said, half doubtfully: 

“Ain’t it in Alabama?”

“No, it’s in the Holy Land,” she said.

A sudden commotion arose in the back of the room.  Billy, by a series of skilful manoeuvers, had succeeded in removing the chair that held one of the planks, and a cascade of small, indignant girls were tobogganing sidewise down the incline.  A fight was imminent, but before any further trouble occurred Mrs. Wiggs locked Billy in the bedroom, and became mistress of the situation.

“What I think you childern need is a talk about fussin’ an’ fightin’.  There ain’t no use in me teachin’ what they done a thousand years ago, when you ain’t got manners enough to listen at what I am sayin’.  I recollect one time durin’ the war, when the soldiers was layin’ ‘round the camp, tryin’ they best to keep from freezin’ to death, a preacher come ‘long to hold a service.  An’ when he got up to preach he sez, ‘Friends,’ sez he, ‘my tex’ is Chillblains.  They ain’t no use a-preachin’ religion to men whose whole thought is set on their feet.  Now, you fellows git some soft-soap an’ pour it in yer shoes, an’ jes’ keep them shoes on till yer feet gits well, an’ the nex’ time I come ’round yer minds’ll be better prepared to receive the word of the Lord.’  Now, that’s the way I feel ‘bout this here Sunday-school.  First an’ fo’most, I am goin’ to learn you all manners.  Jes’ one thought I want you to take away, an’ that is, it’s sinful to fuss.  Ma use’ to say livin’ was like quiltin’—­you orter keep the peace an’ do ’way with the scraps.  Now, what do I want you all to remember?”

“Don’t fuss!” came the prompt answer.

“That’s right; now we’ll sing ‘Pull fer the shore.’”

When the windows had ceased to rattle from the vibrations of the lusty chorus, Mrs. Wiggs lifted her hands for silence.