All nature seemed bursting with eager desire to evidence a Creator's
power. Every tint and color, every breath of perfume, every note of
music, every darting flight or whirling dance, was a call to life--a
challenge to love--an invitation to mate--a declaration of God. The
world throbbed and exulted with the passion of the Giver of Life.

Life itself begat Religion.

Not the least of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life is Religion.
Religion is an exaltation of Life or it is nothing. To exalt Life
truly is to be most truly religious.

But the man, when he first awoke that morning, did not think of
Religion. His first thought was a thought of lazy gratitude that he
need not get up. It was Sunday. With a long sigh of sleepy content, he
turned toward the wall to escape the too bright light that, from the
open window, had awakened him and dozed again.

It was Sunday.

There are bitter cold, icy, snowy, Sundays in mid-winter when one hugs
the cheerless radiator and, shivering in chilly discomfort, wishes
that Sundays were months instead of days apart. There are stifling,
sticky, sweltering. Sundays in midsummer when one prays, if he can
pray at all, for the night to come. And there are blustering, rainy,
sleety, dismal, Sundays in the fall when the dead hours go in funeral
procession by and the world seems a gloomy tomb. But a Sunday in
blossoming time! That is different! The very milk wagons, as they
clattered, belated, down the street rattled a cheery note of