Before each man there was a small pile of corn, still in the
blade, and this was replenished when it began to dwindle by a band of
workers in the moonlight beyond the open windows. In his effort to keep
warm somebody had started a hymn, which was vigorously accompanied by
a beating of numbed feet on the scattered husks on the floor. Above the
volume of sound old Adam's quavering falsetto could be heard piping on
like a cracked and discordant flute.
"O-ver thar, O-ver thar,
Th-ar's a la-nd of pure de-light.
O-ver th-ar,
We will la-y our bur-den do-wn.
An' re-ceive our gol-den cro-wn.
In that la-nd of pure de-light
O-ver th-ar."
"That's a cold hymn, an' unsuitable to the weather," remarked Tim
Mallory at the end of the verse. "If you ask me, I'd say thar was mo'
immediate comfort in singin' about the redness of hell-fire, an' how
mortal close we're comin' to it."
"We don't want no impiousness at this here shuckin', Tim," observed
William Ming, who occupied the position of host in Betsey's absence
about the more important matter of supper. "You fill up with cider an'
go at that thar pile befo' you.
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