n
brought a companion of his class. These boys were well-fed and
well-clothed, and it was when we spent whole days together that I
noticed the disparity. They were "quality"--the baker was called
"Mr.," wore a tall hat on Sundays, and led the psalm singing in the
Presbyterian Church. In the summer time, when the church windows were
open, the leader's voice could be heard a mile away. My childish
misgivings about the distribution of the good things of life were
quieted in the Sunday School by the dictum: "It is the will of God."
My first knowledge of God was that He was a big man in the skies who
dealt out to the church people good things and to others experiences
to make them good. The Bible was to me God's book, and a thing to
be handled reverently. We had a copy, but it was coverless, loose and
incomplete. Every morning I used to take it tenderly in my hands and
pretend to read some of it, "just for luck!" My Sunday School teacher
informed me that work was a curse that God had put upon the world and
from what I saw around me I naturally concluded that life was more of
a curse than a blessing--that was the theory. My father, however,
never seemed to be able to get enough of the curse to appease our
hunger.

[Illustration: Where Mr. Irvine Spent His Boyhood and the pig-sty that
never had a pig]

The lack of class-conscious envy did not prevent an occasional
questioning of God's arrangement of the universe; occasionally, in the
winter time, when my feet were bleeding, cut by the frozen pavements,
I wondered why God somehow or other could not help me to a pair of
shoes. Nevertheless, I reverently worshipped the God who had consigned
me to such pitiless and poorly paid labour, and believed that, being
the will of God, it was surely for my best good.

My first hero worship came to me while a newsboy. A former resident of
the town had returned from America with a modicum of fame. He had left
a labourer, and returned a "Mr." He delivered a lecture in the town
hall, and, out of curiosity, the town turned out to hear him. I was at
the door with my papers. It was a very cold night, and I was shivering
as I stood on one foot leaning against the door post, the sole of the
other foot resting upon my bare leg. But nobody wanted papers at a
lecture. The doorkeeper took pity upon me, and, to my astonishment,
invited me inside. There on a bench, with my back to the wall and my
feet dangling six inches from the floor, I listened to