Adventure Magazine Cover — page 103: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Sunday Morning during the rest of their lives. In spite of the dreadful experiences through which she had passed, there was not wanting a worthy and chivalrous citizen of the young commonwealth who was willing and eager to offer her his hand in marriage; and she lived for many years thereafter, an honored wife and mother, near Lexington. PEO IFE’S a rum deal, eh? ieee Thirteen: years ago, on a wet Ce, and blowing Sunday morning, =—t I was planting ornamental trees around the rich house of rich people. There was a tall new church close by, newly finished. On the top of its tower there shone a cross; emblem of common folk and poor. I was out in the rain and the wind, making my pennies, work was scarce and winter long, and I’d an ill child in the little shanty where I dwelt. I did not think that God would judge me hardly for planting elm- trees on a Sunday morning. The bells chimed near-by, and the people began to pass, going to church. Few noticed me, though my clothes were rain-soaked and my shoes muddied above the ankle. I must, very evidently, have been a poor man, very poor. Such few as turned to gaze a moment at me, gazed frowning, judging me sinful for planting trees on a Sunday, no doubt—which was mine and God’s affair, not any one else’s at all. This morning I passed by the place where I planted trees that morning long ago. There are big trees there now, fit for birds to build in, and to shelter passers from summer’s scorch. I planted well. Again this morning the bells chimed, while I stood a moment under the trees I knew of old. It was as though I stood with my kin, there, under the elms. I had dressed in good clothes, before leaving home, thinking that for this once, since I am in a strange town and know no one whatever, and feel the ache for fellow- ship at times alone in my little house— thinking for this Sunday to go to church. I have tried often enough to go to church; but do not find the whispers of truth therein. Often I blame that on myself, judging my LDIPPES CLT by Bill Adartw Io! Crist became one of the prominent citizens of the State in his day. He served in the State House of Representatives for three vears, was in the State Senate from 1800 to 1804, was elected to Congress for aterm in 1808, and died at his residence in Bullitt County in August, 1844, aged eighty years. A SUNDAY MORNING ears hard of hearing, and my heart untrue to the right. For a space I stood with my old friends the trees; remembering the wet earth of that morning thirteen years ago. Then I passed on, and came at once beside the big church, with its emblem of common folk upon its tower. I saw people stare at me and whisper to one another. I was well and warmly clad, my overcoat heavy, and my collar white. My shoes were new and dry. Doubtless I. appeared as a prosperous merchant come new to the town. A man advanced from amidst the church folk, his hand extended, and a smile on his face. “Are you a stranger here?”’ he asked. “Yes,” said I. And added, “‘And there goes another.” Across the road a tramp was walking down the street with mud on his ankles, and wet clothing on his limbs. “Oh, yes—there are lots of those fellows about just now—the country’s full of tramps,” said the churchman. ‘You must come in, and we will be glad to welcome you,” he added, smiling and nodding backward to the open church door. “T travel with my kith and kin,” said I, and started over the street to walk with the tramp, adding as I stepped from the curb: “T was a tramp too, when you builded your church—and not welcomed. Ours is the cross of common men.”’ He stared at me, his eyes puzzled. I looked back a moment, up at the cross above them all, and to the skies above it, then went on. The tramp, knowing me for a fellowman, asked me for the price of a meal as soon as I came up with him. We ate together, and laughed a good deal. It’s a rum life, isn’t it? MICLOOOK C@ in