ow. I wouldn't hurt one of them for the world. They always remind
me of you.

We hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the Centre to
church. It's a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three
Doric columns in front (or maybe Ionic--I always get them mixed).

A nice sleepy sermon with everybody drowsily waving palm-leaf fans, and
the only sound, aside from the minister, the buzzing of locusts in the
trees outside. I didn't wake up till I found myself on my feet singing
the hymn, and then I was awfully sorry I hadn't listened to the sermon;
I should like to know more of the psychology of a man who would pick
out such a hymn. This was it:

Come, leave your sports and earthly toys
And join me in celestial joys.
Or else, dear friend, a long farewell.
I leave you now to sink to hell.

I find that it isn't safe to discuss religion with the Semples. Their
God (whom they have inherited intact from their remote Puritan
ancestors) is a narrow, irrational, unjust, mean, revengeful, bigoted
Person. Thank heaven I don't inherit God from anybody! I am free to
make mine up as I wish Him. He's kind and sympathetic and imaginative
and forgiving and understanding--and He has a sense of humour.

I like the Semples immensely; their practice is so superior to their
theory. They are better than their own God. I told them so--and they
are horribly troubled. They think I am blasphemous--and I think they
are! We've dropped theology from our conversation.

This is Sunday afternoon.

Amasai (hired man) in a purple tie and some bright yellow buckskin
gloves, very red and shaved, has just driven off with Carrie (hired
girl) in a big hat trimmed with red roses and a blue muslin dress and
her hair curled as tight as it will curl. Amasai spent all the morning
washing the buggy; and Carrie stayed home from church ostensibly to
cook the dinner, but really to iron the muslin dress.

In two minutes more when this letter is finished I am going to settle
down to a book which I found in the attic. It's entitled, On the
Trail, and sprawled across the front page in a funny little-boy hand:

Jervis Pendleton
if this book should ever roam,
Box its ears and send it home.

He spent the summer here once after he had been ill, when he was about
eleven years old; and he left On the Trail behind. It looks well
read--the ma