“Aw, I don’t like church,” the girl replied.

“An’, chile, I can’t blame you much,” said Sister Johnson, fumbling in the pocket of her apron. “De way dese churches done got now’days.... Sandy, run in de house an’ ask yo’ pappy fo’ a match to light ma pipe.... It ain’t ‘Come to Jesus’ no mo’ a-tall. Ministers dese days an’ times don’t care nothin’ ’bout po’ Jesus. ’Stead o’ dat it’s rally dis an’ collection dat, an’ de aisle wants a new carpet, an’ de pastor needs a ’lectric fan fer his red-hot self.” The old sister spat into the yard. “Money! That’s all ’tis! An’ white folkses’ religion—Lawd help! ’Taint no use in mentionin’ them.”

“True,” agreed Hager.

“Cause if de gates o’ heaven shuts in white folkses’ faces like de do’s o’ dey church in us niggers’ faces, it’ll be too bad! Yes, sir! One thing sho, de Lawd ain’t prejudiced!”

“No,” said Hager; “but He don’t love ugly, neither in niggers nor in white folks.”

“Now, talking about white folks’ religion,” said Annjee, emerging from the house with a fresh white dress on, “why, Mis’ Rice where I work don’t think no more about playing bridge on Sunday than she does about praying—and I ain’t never seen her pray yet.”

“You’re nuts,” said Jimboy behind her. “People’s due to have a little fun on Sundays. That’s what’s the matter with colored folks now—work all week and then set up in church all day Sunday, and don’t even know what’s goin’ on in the rest of the world.”

“Huh!” grunted Hager.

“Well, we won’t argue, daddy,” Annjee smiled. “Come on and walk a piece with me, sweetness. Here ’tis nearly nine and I should a been at the hall at eight, but colored folks are always behind the clock. Come on, Jimboy.”

“Good-bye, mama,” yelled Sandy from the lawn as his parents strolled up the street together.

“Jimboy’s right,” said Harriett. “Darkies do like the church too much, but white folks don’t care nothing about it at all. They’re too busy getting theirs out of this world, not from God. And I don’t blame ’em, except that they’re so mean to niggers. They’re right, though, looking out for themselves . . . and yet I hate ’em for it. They don’t have to mistreat us besides, do they?”

“Honey, don’t talk that way,” broke in Hager. “It ain’t Christian, chile. If you don’t like ’em, pray for ’em, but don’t feel evil against ’em. I was in slavery, Harrie, an’ I been knowin’ white folks all ma life, an’ they’s good as far as they can see—but when it comes to po’ niggers, they just can’t see far, that’s all.”

Harriett opened her mouth to reply, but Jimboy, who left Annjee at the corner and had returned to the porch, beat her to it. “We too dark for ’em, ma,” he laughed. “How they gonna see in the dark? You colored folks oughta get lighter, that’s what!”

“Shut up yo’ mouth, you yaller rooster!” said Sister Johnson. “White folks is white folks, an’ dey’s mean! I can’t help what Hager say,” the old woman disagreed emphatically with her crony. “Ain’t I been knowin’ crackers sixty-five years, an’ ain’t dey de cause o’ me bein’ here in Stanton ’stead o’ in ma home right today? De dirty buzzards! Ain’t I nussed t’ree of ’em up from babies like ma own chillens, and ain’t dem same t’ree boys done turned round an’ helped run me an’ Tom out o’ town?”