“For forty years Uncle Dave has been a consistent member of the church—some church—it don't matter which. For forty years he has trod the narrer path, stumpin' his toe now an' then, but allers gettin' up agin, for forty years he has he'ped others all he cu'd, been charitable an' forgivin', as hones' as the temptation would permit, an' only a natural lie now an' then as to the weather or the size of a fish, trustin' in God to make it all right.
“An' now, in the twilight of life, when his sun is 'most set an' the dews of kindness come with old age, right gladly will he wake up some mornin' in a better lan', the scrub in him all bred out, the yaller streak gone, the sins of the flesh left behind. An' that's about the way with the most of us,—no better an' maybe wuss—Amen!”
Uncle Dave was weeping:
“Oh, Hillard—Hillard,” he said, “say all that over agin about the clouds an' the thunder of passion—say all the last part over agin—it sounds so good!”
The congregation thronged around him and shook his hand. They gave him the flowers they had brought; they told him how much they thought of him, how sorry they would be to see him dead, how they had always intended to come to see him, but had been so busy, and to cheer up that he wasn't dead yet.
“No”—said Uncle Dave, weeping—“no, an' now since I see how much you all keer fur me I don't b'lieve—I—I wanter die at all.”