An upturned barrel serves for pulpit, and a horse blanket, bearing the manufacturer’s name in large letters, is the embroidered altar cloth. No Genevan gown lends grace to the minister, but coatless he stands—a shirt-sleeved messenger of God.
The opening of a service conducted by Frank Higgins, the Sky Pilot, is thus described:
“‘Sing No. 31, boys; it’s easy and it’s a good one. Let her go!’
“Alas! and did my Saviour bleed?
And did my Sovereign die?”
“The hymn is old and the boys welcome it lustily. The music lacks in sweetness: in volume it abounds.
“‘You can do better. Hit it harder on the next verse.’
“They do; they shout it forth in full voice, pleased with the song, glad for the privilege of singing. Then the chorus: ‘At the cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light,’ shakes the bunkhouse and wanders over the far reaches of the night-bound forest. In our fashionable churches, trained voices blend in superb harmony; but this is the music of songless lives.”
However different may be our views on many questions of religion, most of us agree that