THE COUNTRY. 135

 Their voices are melodious and gentle, their
 pleasant black faces full of sleepy kindness,
 but almost untouched by what is called spirit-
 uality. They sit, with apparent discomfort,
 but with the utmost good-nature, in an un-
 steady wagon; its canvas cover is stained with
 years of dust, and flaps lazily, where it is not
 tied with twine or rope to the framework of
 the cart. The white mule, between the shafts,
 walks in profoundest leisure, and is thin beyond
 words. The women are decorated, because it
 is Sunday, by bits of scarlet ribbon upon their
 dust-colored clothing, or a yellow necker-
 chief, perhaps, or a blue feather. The old ne-
 gress wears a snow-white turban, and great
 gold rings in her ears; she seems to sleep,
 but from under her drooping lids her black
 eyes show in a line of glittering light. Thus,
 winding in and out among the pines, they reach
 their church.
 The Wash-foot Baptists worship in a single
 room which is made of rough planks put to-
gether so carelessly that one can look out
between the boards, and see the blaze of day