There's a couple of preachers, a Baptist and a Methodist, livin' in either end of a little community, and it was back in the days when people didn't have many cars -- they rode bicycles to church.
And one Sunday mornin', when the Methodist feller comes a-whistlin' along down the road on his bicycle, he meets that Baptist boy walkin'.
And he asked him where his bike was, and he says, "You know, I don't know where that thing's at -- if someone didn't steal it," he said, "I've left it somewhere's and forgot what I'd done with it."
"Well," he said, "I'll tell you," the Methodist feller says, "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go down to the churches this mornin' and preach a good sermon on the Ten Commandments -- and when we get down to where it says 'Thou shall not steal', we'll dwell long and loud, and chances are one of our sermons will pay off."
Next Sunday mornin', they come ridin' along down the road, he met the Baptist feller, he had his bicycle, he says, "Well, one of our sermons paid off!"
And the Baptist boy dropped his head, he says, "Yeah, mine did, but not like you think," he says, "When I got down there to where it says 'Covet not thy neighbor's wife', I remembered where I'd left my bicycle!"
Well, you know, as a rule, Quaker folks and Baptist folks never agree on anything close enough to be very good friends, but the tale I'm gonna tell you is about a Quaker feller and a Baptist who broke the rules and, well, were an exception to this usually thought of rule.
The Baptist and the Quaker feller were pretty good friends. The Quaker boy'd moved into the community, right pretty close to a Baptist church, and they'd known one another for about a year.
One day, this ol' Quaker boy goes down to a stock sale, and he bought -- not knowin' it, of course -- but bought the meanest milk cow that ever lived. He kept her for about two and a half to three weeks, and durin' that time, she'd spilled at least a half dozen buckets of milk and bruised his knee pretty bad a couple of times with that hindfoot, you know.
One mornin', after she'd been in a pasture of brambles and scratched them udders all over, he went out to milk, and that cow stood there and quivered and shook like old Elvis until he got the bucket about plumb full of foam and just fixin' to come over the top of the bucket, you know...
She hauls off and kicks Quaker, bucket, stool, and all over, and spills that milk all over him. He got up and walked about ten feet away from her, and brushed the hay, and the milk foam, and I don't know what all off him, and stood, looked there at her 'till his temper cooled down, and he walked up and patted her on the head and said, "Nay, Bossie, I can't strike thee, but on the morrow, I'll sell thee to a Baptist and he'll beat the hell out of thee!"