The colored people within a radius of twenty-five miles of Reding Springs camp ground, Union county, congregate there once a year, generally in August, after the crops are laid by, for a big religious revival. At Reding Springs they are far removed from white people, and surrounded by forests. They can camp out, eat, drink, preach and sing to their hearts’ content without molesting anyone. Sometimes the meetings are brought to sudden conclusions by free-for-all fights, started by bullies, with rocks, pistols and razors, but this is an unusual thing for the good darkies of that section strive to keep down any unlawful disturbances. Old Satan, shrewd and alert always, enters the home of God’s people occasionally and makes mischief. So it is at Reding Springs now and then.

For almost a half century Reding Springs has been a popular camping place for the negroes of the Sandy Ridge region. They gather there and remain for weeks, worshiping according to their lights. Thousands of persons camp there during the meeting. They make the neighborhood dark with their presence and resound with their music.

The Reding Springs meetings are not for the city-bred negro, with his lofty airs and college training, but for the country negro. There he feels at home, where he goes once every twelve months to repent of his sins, give in his experience and shout until weary. The religious enthusiast can sing, preach, pray or participate in any other seemly way in the services without restrictions. The parson reads his text, closes the Bible, and preaches from memory. He gives out the hymns line at a time, and leads in the singing, young and old, saint and sinner joining to make the welkin ring, no one feeling constrained to curb his voice, the more force applied the better, volume, not quality, being demanded.

Dear reader, if you have followed me so far, don’t turn back now, for it is my purpose to tell you about Arabella Simpkins, the prophetess of the Reding Springs section. She was the sage of the community. The negroes feared her, and their fear was of the sort that made them want to get closer to her.

Reding Springs negroes had cause to fear Arabella. The troubles that she predicted came true. She had foretold the storm that swept the harbor away in 1882; the earthquake that shook the tents in 1886, and the bolt of lightning that set fire to the church in 1898. She had seen these in visions and told of them as she shouted up and down the aisles of the camp grounds. The people had learned from experience that the predictions of Arabella came to pass; she had won the respect of the leaders, who looked upon her arrival as an omen for good or bad. She had never attended a meeting except to deliver herself of an abiding prophecy. Therefore, if Arabella appeared on the scene everybody gave way to her and listened with abated breath for her prediction, which she gave when the meeting was at its best, when excitement ran highest. Before the big negress could perform effectively, the preaching and singing had to be of such a character that the hearers cried and wrung their hands. Then, with the aisles and halls filled with shouting men and women and crying children, Arabella sallied forth from her seat, humming softly, walling her eyes and warming up as she went.

It was a hot day in 19— that I went with a party of young people to the Reding Springs camp meeting. We were invited by some of the older darkies of Providence. It was said that Arabella was about due, as she had not been out in several years, and, hence, a good time to go.

We arrived early Sunday morning, looked over the grounds and watched the crowds gather from the surrounding country. I enjoyed the preliminaries. I had never seen so many and such a variety of vehicles. The majority of the darkies came in wagons, sitting flat on the bottom, using wheat or oat straw as a cushion, while others rode in antiquated carriages, buggies and two-wheeled carts, some of which were drawn by oxen. The outskirts of the grounds were covered with canvas tents, where those from a distance lived.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened until ten o’clock, when I saw several old men and women, those high in the councils of the church, looking and pointing down the road toward Twelve-Mile creek. Going near, so that I could hear, I learned that an old sister had spied a covered wagon, and, as I approached, she was saying: “Dat sho’ is Arabella Simpkins, and her top wagin, fur I knows dat ole yaller mule.”

“Sister Blue,” said Parson Honeycutt, “I’m ’clined to b’lieve dat you is kerrect in yo’ diagnosis uv de case, fur dat looks mighty lak Miss Simpkins on de front seat.”

“I’s sho’ uv it now,” added Sister Blue, “fur dat’s CÆsar, her ole man, drivin’; I knows his derby hat. Yes, sir, an’ dere somefin’ on Arry’s mind. We sho’ is gwine to hear somefin’ drap to-day.”

And so it proved.

Arabella was on the way. She and CÆsar came driving a sorrel mule, whose mane and tail needed trimming.

A chill passed over the crowd when it became generally known that the notorious Arabella was arriving. There was not a negro present who would not have given all he possessed to have been at home. But every one was too superstitious to run away; that would have brought bad luck. Therefore, with a kind of fear that produces confidence and brings hope the unhappy negroes collected about Arabella and offered their services, but with the air of a judge, who had the power to sentence to prison or death the entire crowd, she refused all proffers of help. The mule unhitched and tied to a dogwood sprout she went to the harbor and took a seat half way down the middle pew. Every person craned slyly his neck to see her. The prophetess sat, with her arms folded across her lap, silent and dignified. CÆsar, who had escorted her in, seemed to be absorbed in some profound thought. No one went near the pair.

The older men of the congregation retired to the amen corner and sat like dummies waiting for the hour for the sermon to begin.

Everybody was wild with pent-up excitement. There was anxiety in every eye. Feeling, though suppressed, ran high.

Brother Honeycutt, trembling with emotion, announced that the ten-thirty service would begin with prayer and asked one and all to join him in a petition to the Lord for a successful meeting. He fell upon his knees and prayed long and earnestly, beseeching the Maker to stay the hand of the evil one and save the Reding Springs people from any great pending calamity. The fervent ones punctuated and punctured the prayer with hearty amens. Hymns were sung and the sermon commenced. At first there was nothing unusual about the services. They were like those of all negro meetings held in rural districts, except that the congregation seemed unusually quiet. The falling of a pin upon the floor could have been heard across the room.

The arrival of Arabella had brought order. The bravest of the rowdies would not have dared disturb the tranquillity of that meeting. A most pious and respectful body of worshippers it was!

Along toward the latter part of the sermon Parson Honeycutt warmed up to his subject and spoke with force and feeling, picturing the scenes of judgment day, when all would be begging Peter for admittance to the Holy Land. His story and enthusiasm were calculated to touch the hardest-hearted sinner. As he moved on, swinging, half speaking and half singing, the audience became more and more interested. As he swayed to and fro behind the pulpit his hearers swung in sympathy. In conclusion he sung:

The entire congregation chimed in and sang with spirit if not understanding.

It was at this juncture that an over-wrought sister, singing and crying at the top of her voice, “an’ it’s good enough fer me,” rushed into the aisle, clapping her hands, and shouting.

The meeting was getting right then for Elder Brown, a man of piety and reverence, cried out: “Dat’s it, sister, tell it to ’em!”

A half-dozen women and two men joined the first shouter.

“An’ it’s good enough fer me,” yelled the preacher, slapping his big hands together; “come on, brethren an’ sistern, an’ jine de moaners!”

Four-fifths of the congregation kept an eye on Arabella, knowing that it was only a question of time until she would come forward with a swing and a whoop, and tell what she had seen.

The eager throng did not have to wait long, for Arabella was eager to get out, and deliver her message. Laying aside her hat and veil she waltzed out, humming softly, and sweetly, in a melodious voice, “An’ I seed er vision, er vision, er vision!”

“I tole you so, honey, an’ she’s gwine to tell it,” shouted Uncle Jerry Howard, one of the class leaders.

As she rose I got a good look at Arabella, and I was very much impressed with her masculine features. She weighed about 225 pounds, was large of bone, muscular and black. She entered the aisle reeling and rocking.

“Clar de way dere,” said Parson Honeycutt, “an’ let Miss Simpkins pass!”

“It sho’ is de same ole Arabella,” declared Class Leader Jones, “an’ she’s gut trouble on her mind des as sho’ as you’s born’d.

“Come on, Sister Simpkins, an’ don’t keep us in dis agony! Tell de truf as you see it! Tell it an’ let us prepare fer de wust!”

“Dis mornin’,” sang Arabella, “as I wuz er comin’ er long-er de road, I seed er vision, er vision, er vision.”

“Tell it, sister; don’t keep back nothin’. What wuz it you seed?” came from the amen corner.

“Yes, Brer Honeycutt, des as I started, an’ as I wuz comin’ down de road-er, I seed er vision, er vision, er vision!”

“Yes, Lawd! Tell it all, sister! What did you see?”

“An’ I looked back-er, an’ seed it ergin-er.”

“Come on wid it, sister! Tell it all!”

“An’ it had-er long tail-er. Yes, Lawd, an’ dat I did-er!”

“Come on, honey, what wuz it you seed?”

By this time everybody else had quit shouting; Arabella had the floor to herself. Every neck was craned and every ear open to get what she said.

“An’ I look back-er, an’ I seed dat it had er head-er, er head-er, er head-er!”

“What den, chile?”

“An’ er long body-er, body-er, body-er! An’ legs-er, fo’ long legs-er. Yes, yes, chillun, an’ fo’ legs-er!”

While this was going on I could not keep my eyes off of Parson Honeycutt, the large, striking-looking preacher, who was very superstitious. I was afraid he would go into convulsions. His eyes were stretched, his nostrils distended and his mouth in a quiver. He leaned over the pulpit and listened intently at Arabella. He was anxious to hear her prediction. The suspense was telling on his nerves, and his heart.

“What wuz it, sister?” he cried in his agony.

“An’ I look back-er, an’ seed dat it had a long pair years-er,” continued Arabella.

The excitement had reached its zenith. The tension was greatest, and the crowd could constrain itself no longer. The spell was broken when Elder Brown shouted: “An’ thank Gawd it were a mule-er!”

“Amen!” added the parson.

“Hold me, hold me, hold me, ef you don’t I’ll fly away to glory an’ leave you all,” bellowed Arabella.

“Brother Simpkins, hold yo’ wife,” cried a voice.

CÆsar Simpkins rose from his seat and started toward Arabella, who was prancing up and down the center aisle, but when she saw him coming she waved her hand at him and sung:

Parson Honeycutt hurried down from the rostrum, caught Arabella by the right arm, and they went up the aisle singing “Glory hallelujah!”

Arabella went into a trance, fell in Brother Honeycutt’s arms, and was carried out and laid upon the grass beneath a large oak tree, where she was permitted to cool off and “come around.”

The sequel: That afternoon, while on his way home, Brother Honeycutt was thrown from his roan mule, Napoleon Bonaparte, who became frightened at a toad hopping across the road, and had his left forefinger broken.

“I told you so!” said one and all. “Dat nigger’s vision allers comes true.”