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Sunday
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Isn't it funny? I started to write to you yesterday afternoon, but as far as I got was the heading, 'Dear Daddy-Long-Legs', and then I remembered I'd promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so I went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when I came back today, what do you think I found sitting in the middle of the page?
A real true Daddy-Long-Legs!
I picked him up very gently by one leg, and dropped him out of the window.
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.
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