A Sour Pie
IT is always a happy Sabbath for me when it is Brother Porter’s day to preach at our Union church. He fives five miles up the mountain and is a farmer except on Sundays. Somehow he brings with him the solemn sincerity of the fields, and when he sternly reproves us we feel that ‘Nature never lies’ and are abashed.
We drop our eyes when he says, ‘The rest promised you in this Book ain’t the rest you git when you sell your farm and set around the post office and whittle.’
For we know that the post office is Dan’els Gap’s Wisdom Club, and we do whittle on the bench in front.
True, at first it is disconcerting when Brother Porter pauses in his sermon, opens the door next the pulpit, revealing to us misty mountains, spits accurately at the tall pine tree beside the door, and then complacently resumes his sermon. But one grows accustomed to a lack of ritual. I confess that I watch, fascinated, our silver-haired song leader, who between hymns parks his painful artificial teeth in his well-thumbed songbook, and can replace upper and lower with one deft movement of his gnarled hand.
Merely mannerisms. We know these good men.
One Sunday, after service, Brother Porter drove with a rather unregenerate bachelor in his Ford (Brother Porter rides a mule to church) several miles up the mountain to conciliate a widow who had been ‘stirrin’ up trouble in the church.’ He succeeded. As they drove home between green walls of pines, the unregenerate bachelor said: —
‘Brother Porter, that was the gol-darnest dinner and the sourest pie I ever et round Dan’els Gap.’
To his surprise Brother Porter cried: ‘Stop the car, Bob. I’ve got to go back. You can’t turn here, but you can drive on and wait for me at the post office.’
‘What’s the matter? Left something? I’ll wait here for you.’
Brother Porter set off rapidly up the mountain. The unregenerate bachelor smoked half a package of cigarettes and waited. It was a hot day. When Brother Porter climbed again into the car he appeared weary but serene.
‘Find it, Brother Porter?’
‘Bob, I’ve got to preach to-night at Dan’els Gap. I can’t preach in the house of God with a lie on my soul. I wanted to get the Widda Cole back in the fold, and to please her and put her in a good frame o’ mind Satan tempted me to say, “Miz Cole, that was the best pie I ever et.” It was a sour pie. I went back and told her I’d lied — pintblank.’
‘My Lord, Brother Porter! Hit was a mighty hot day to walk plum up the mountain to insult a widda woman.’
‘She forgive me, and so’ll God,’ said Brother Porter humbly.
ELEANOR RISLEY