“Patience, brother, patience,” said the parson. “I’ll illustrate. Suppose you were thirsty and came to a river. You could kneel right down and drink, couldn’t you? And it would cost you nothing, would it?”
“Of course not. That’s just what I—”
“That water would be free,” continued the parson. “But supposing you were to have that water piped to your house, you would have to pay, would you not?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Well, brother, salvation is free, but it is the having it piped to you that you got to pay for. Pass the hat, sexton.”
* * *
It was rather quiet at the postoffice the other day and outside of the Whiz Bang mail our genial postmaster, Bud Nasset, sorted out only two letters. The first one was addressed to Deacon Miller from his son, reading as follows: “Dear Father—I am in jail. Son.” The Deacon’s answer was the other letter, “Dear Son—So am I. Father.”