ery spring. In the fence corner
mother's big white turkey hen always nested. To protect her from rain
and too hot sun, father had slipped some boards between the rails about
three feet from the ground. After the turkey left, that was my pulpit.

I stood there and used the top of the fence for my railing.

The little flags and all the orchard and birds were behind me; on one
hand was the broad, grassy meadow with the creek running so swiftly, I
could hear it, and the breath of the cowslips came up the hill.
Straight in front was the lane running down from the barn, crossing the
creek and spreading into the woods pasture, where the water ran wider
and yet swifter, big forest trees grew, and bushes of berries, pawpaws,
willow, everything ever found in an Indiana thicket; grass under foot,
and many wild flowers and ferns wherever the cattle and horses didn't
trample them, and bigger, wilder birds, many having names I didn't
know. On the left, across the lane, was a large cornfield, with trees
here and there, and down the valley I could see the Big Creek coming
from the west, the Big Hill with the church on top, and always the
white gravestones around it. Always too there was the sky overhead,
often with clouds banked until you felt if you only could reach them,
you could climb straight to the gates that father was so fond of
singing about sweeping through. Mostly there was a big hawk or a
turkey buzzard hanging among them, just to show us that we were not so
much, and that we couldn't shoot them, unless they chose to come down
and give us a chance.

I set Bobby and Hezekiah on the fence and stood between them. "We will
open service this morning by singing the thirty-fifth hymn," I said.
"Sister Dover, will you pitch the tune?"

Then I made my voice high and squeally like hers and sang:

"Come ye that love the Lord,
And let your joys be known,
Join in a song of sweet accord,
And thus surround the throne."

I sang all of it and then said: "Brother Hastings, will you lead us in
prayer?"

Then I knelt down, and prayed Brother Hastings' prayer. I could have
repeated any one of a dozen of the prayers the men of our church
prayed, but I liked Brother Hastings' best, because it had the biggest
words in it. I loved words that filled your mouth, and sounded as if
you were used to books. It began sort of sing-songy and measured in
stops, like a poetry piece:

"Our Heavenly Father: We come before Thee