Uncle Noah watched him with misty eyes. Presently his
gaze furtively sought the rusty ax in the corner, and great tear rolled
down his cheek. Caught in the wave of a sudden panic he dropped upon
his knees and clasped his trembling hands. The dusky barn, littered
with odds and ends, was dimly visible in the glimmering light of the
old-fashioned lantern whose slanting rays fell upon the doomed bird and
the praying negro. No thought of sacrilege marred the quaint, halting
prayer. A terrible earnestness lined the negro's face with a holiness
of purpose and made it beautiful.
"Oh, Lord," he prayed, "save dis yere ol' turkey gobbler. I knows,
Lord, he's a powahful wuthless bird, but he's all I'se got. I'se jus'
an' ol' slave, Massa, what's been free since de War, an' Job, sah, he
understan's me. Lord, I doan wanta live no mo' if I has to kill ol'
Job. Send me an inspiration, Lord, an' tell me how I can save his
wuthless ol' hide. Save him an'--an' God bless de Colonel! Amen."
For an interval, in which the only sound was that of Job's feet as he
strutted about seeking an edible successor to the bread, Uncle Noah
remained upon his knees in the attitude of prayer, perhaps awaiting
inspiration.
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