Sunday not long ago a poor old lady who was a comparative stranger in
the city. During the sermon she sat with mouth, eyes and ears open.
After the service she came to me and said, "I tank de Lord He bro't me
year. I done been gwine ter church dese fifty years, an I nebber heard
de tex 'splained befo." This old lady has since united with our
church, and when she is not there I know something serious is the
matter at her home. It is worth a year's preaching to have the
privilege of enlightening one benighted soul like this.

I called recently on an old gentleman who had become generally
disgusted with "dese yere churches roun year." I found him poring over
a big, well-worn Bible, the perspiration pouring down his shiny face,
and with a big pair of spectacles resting on the tip of his nose. With
an air of superior wisdom he surveyed me over the top of the
spectacles, and then solemnly stated to the few who gathered around as
I sat down on an old soap box, "Dat a preacher? I kin tell a preacher
the fus question I ask him." Then taking off the spectacles and slowly
closing the big Bible, he went on: "Now I'se gwine to put you all a
question" (looking at the others) "an den I'se gwine ter ask de
preacher, an I can tell whedder he'm a good one or not." "Now," said
he, "when we gits cold and wicked follerin' our own ways, how does de
Lord brung us back again to our senses?" This question was put with
various modifications to each in turn until it came to me. "Now, what
does you say?" he said to me. I replied that my experience said
"Trouble." "Yah! Yah! dat's it, Trouble. You's answered it, shore;
dese yere ignorant niggers, dey don't know nuffin. Ise gwine up to
hear you preach next Sunday." And sure enough, there he was the next
Sunday and his wife with him. This is about the way we gather them in,
one by one.