still a boy. The church was mostly served by first-termers, not
especially inspiring. I recall one good man who seemed to have no other
qualification for the office. He frankly admitted that he had worked in
a mill and in a lumber-yard, and said he liked preaching "better than
anything he'd ever been at." He was very sincere and honest. He had a
uniform lead in prayer: "O Lord, we thank thee that it is as well with
us as what it is." The sentiment was admirable, but somehow the manner
grated. When the presiding elder came around we had a relief. He was
wide-awake and witty. One night he read the passage of Scripture where
they all began with one accord to make excuses. One said: "I have
married a wife and cannot come." The elder, looking up, said, "Why
didn't the pesky fool bring her with him?"

In the process of time the Presbyterians started a church, and I went
there; swept out, trimmed the lamps, and sang in the choir. The preacher
was an educated man, and out of the pulpit was kind and reasonable; but
he persisted that "Good deeds were but as filthy rags." I didn't believe
it and I didn't like it. The staid pastor had but little recreation, and
I am afraid I was always glad that Ulrica Schumacher, the frisky sister
of the gunsmith, almost always beat him at chess.

He was succeeded by a man I loved, and I wonder I did not join his
church. We were good friends and used to go out trout-fishing together.
He was a delightful man, but when he was in the pulpit he shrank and
shriveled. The danger of Presbyterianism passed when he expressed his
doubt whether it would be best for my mother to partake of communion, as
she had all her life in the Unitarian church. She was willing, but
waited his approval. My mother was the most saintly of women, absolutely
unselfish and self-sacrificing, and it shocked me that any belief or
lack of belief should exclude her from a Christian communion.