I was sitting on the fence at the close of the day, a very happy day.  I must have been moved by the colour of the sky, or by the emotion produced by the lines of the hymn.  It may have been both.  But, as I sat on the fence and watched the sun set over the trees, an emotion swept over me, and the tears began to flow.  My body seemed to change as by the pouring into it of some strange, life-giving fluid.  I wanted to shout, to scream aloud; but instead, I went rapidly over the hill into the woods, dropped on my knees, and began to pray.

It was getting dark, but the woods were filled with light.  Perhaps it was the light of my vision or the light of my mind—­I know not.  But when I came back into the open, I felt as though I were walking on air.  As I passed through the farmyard, I came in contact with some of the men; and their questions led me to believe that some of the experience remained on my face; but I naively set aside their questions and passed on down the country road to the town.

That night as I climbed to the little loft, I realized for the first time in my life that I had never slept in a bed, but on a pallet of straw.  My bed covering was composed of old gunny sacks sewed together; and automatically, when I took my clothes off, I made a pillow of them.  Many a night I had been kept awake by the gnawing pangs of hunger; but this night I was kept awake for a different reason.  It was an indescribable ecstasy, a new-born joy.  As I lay there with my head about a foot from the thatched roof, I hummed over and over again the two lines of the hymn, sometimes breaking the continuity in giving way to tears.

The second revelation came to me the following morning.  I realized the condition of my body.  I was in rags and dirty.  I shook my mother out of her slumber and begged her to help me sew up the rents in my clothes.  I had no shoes, but I carefully washed my feet, combed my tousled, unkempt hair, and took great pains in the washing of my face.  All of this was a mystery to my mother.  She wanted to know what had happened to me, and a very unusual thing ended the preparations for the day.  My mother said I looked “purty,” and kissed me as I went out of the door.

As I walked up the street that morning, I shared my joy with the first living thing I met—­the saloon-keeper’s old dog, Rover.  I shook his paw and said, “Morrow, Rover.”  Everything looked beautiful.  The world was full of joy.  I was perfectly sure that the birds were sharing it, for they sang that morning as I had never heard them sing before.  I resolved to let at least one person into the secret.  I was sure that my sister would understand me.  She used to visit me every noon hour, on the pretence of bringing my dinner.  We had a secret compact that, whether there was any dinner to bring or not, she should come with a bowl wrapped in a piece of cloth, as was the custom with other men’s sisters and wives.

There was a straight stretch of road a mile long, and, as I sat on the roadside watching for her, I could tell a mile off whether she had any dinner or not.  When there was anything in the bowl, she carried it steadily; when empty, she would swing it like a censer.