“Uncle Dan’l"(colored,) aged 40; his wife, “aunt Jinny,” aged 30, “Young Miss” Emily Hawkins, “Young Mars” Washington Hawkins and “Young Mars” Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed it.  The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a raving bank in the distance.

The little company assembled on the log were all children (at least in simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with the character; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before then, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone.  Suddenly Uncle Dan’l exclaimed: 

“Chil’en, dah’s sum fin a comin!”

All crowded close together and every heart beat faster.

Uncle Dan’l pointed down the river with his bony finger.

A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jetted into the stream a mile distant.  All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out froth behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water.  The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder.  A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness.  Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession.

“What is it!  Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan’l!”

With deep solemnity the answer came: 

“It’s de Almighty!  Git down on yo’ knees!”

It was not necessary to say it twice.  They were all kneeling, in a moment.  And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro’s voice lifted up its supplications: 

“O Lord’, we’s ben mighty wicked, an’ we knows dat we ’zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ain’t ready yit, we ain’t ready —­let dese po’ chilen hab one mo’ chance, jes’ one mo’ chance.  Take de ole niggah if you’s, got to hab somebody.—­Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don’t know whah you’s a gwyne to, we don’t know who you’s got yo’ eye on, but we knows by de way you’s a comin’, we knows by de way you’s a tiltin’