If I could only have gone to church barefoot, with my shirt open at
the throat, and with a pocket full of cookies to munch _ad lib_
throughout the services, I am sure that the spiritual uplift would
have been greater. The soul of a boy doesn't expand violently when
encased in a starched shirt and a paper collar, and these surmounted
by a thick coat, with the mercury at ninety-seven in the shade. I
think I can trace my religious retardation back to those hungry
Sundays, those tight shoes, that warm coat, and those frequent jabs
in my ribs when I fain would have slept.

In my childhood there was such a host of people who were pushing and
pulling me about in an effort to make me good that, even yet, I shy
away from their style of goodness. The wonder is that I have any
standing at all in polite and upright society. So many folks said I
was bad and naughty, and applied so many other no less approbrious
epithets to me that, in time, I came to believe them, and tried
somewhat diligently to live up to the reputation they gave me. I
recall that one of my aunts came in one day and, seeing me out in the
yard most ingloriously tousled, asked my good mother: "Is that your
child?" Poor mother! I have often wondered how much travail of
spirit it must have cost her to acknowledge me as her very own. One
thumb, one great toe, and an ankle were decorated with greasy rags,
and I was far from being ornamental. I had been hulling walnuts,
too, and my stained hands served to accentuate the human scenery.

This same aunt had three boys of her own, later on, and a more
disreputable-looking crew it would be hard to find. I confess that I
took a deal of grim satisfaction in their dilapidated ensemble, just
for my aunt's benefit, of course. They were fine, wholesome, natural