The full glory of a spring day in Indiana shone over the vast forests, as the Tunker rose to speak under the great trees. It was like an Easter, and, indeed, the hymn sung at the opening of the service was much like an Easter hymn. It related how—
"On this lovely morning my Saviour was rising,
The chains of mortality fully despising;
His sufferings are over, he's done agonizing—
This morning my Saviour will think upon me."
The individuality of the last line seemed especially comforting to many of the toiling people, and caused Aunt Olive to uplift her voice in a great shout.
"Come with me," said Jasper; "come with me this morning, and we will walk beside the Sea of Galilee together. Galilee! I love to think of Galilee—far, far away. The words spoken on the shores of Galilee, and on the mountains over-looking Galilee, are the hope of the world. They are the final words of our all-loving Father to his children. Times may change, but these words will never be exceeded or superseded; nothing can ever go beyond these teachings of the brotherhood of man, and the way that the heart may find God, and become conscious of the presence of God, and know its immortality, and the everlasting truth. What did the great Teacher say on Galilee?"
The Parable began to repeat from memory the Sermon on the Mount and the Galilean teachings. The birds came and sang in the trees during the long recitations, and the people sank down on the grass. Once or twice Aunt Olive's corn-field bonnet rose up, and out of it came a shout of "Glory!" One enthusiastic brother shouted, at one point of the quotations: "That's right, elder; pitch into 'em, and give it 'em—they need it. We're all sinners here; a good field to improve upon! Go on!"
It was past high noon when Jasper finished his quotations from the Gospels. He then paused, and said:
"Do you want to know who I am, and why I am here, and what has sent me forth among the speckled birds of the forest? I will tell you. A true life has no secrets—it needs none; it is open to all like the revelations of the skies, and the sea, and the heart of Nature—what is concealed in the heart is what should not be.
"I had a teacher. He is living now—an old, broken man—a name that will sound strange to your ears. He gave up his life to teach the orphans made by the war. He studied with them, learned with them, ate with them; he saw with their eyes and felt with their hearts. He taught after the school of Nature; as Nature teaches the child within, so he taught, using outward objects.
"He once said to me:
"'For thirty years my life has been a struggle against poverty. For thirty years I have had to forego many of the barest necessities of life, and have had to shun the society of my fellow-men for want of decent clothes. Many and many times I have gone without a dinner, and eaten in bitterness a dry crust of bread on the road, at a time when even the poorest were seated around a table. All this I have suffered, and am suffering still to-day, and with no other object than to realize my plan for helping the poor.'