The colored minister had just concluded a powerful sermon on “Salvation
is Free” and was announcing that a collection would be taken. Up
jumped a brother in the back of the church. “If salvation is free,” he
interrupted, “what’s the use paying for it? I’m going to give you nothing
till I find out. Now—”
“Patience, brother, patience,” said the parson. “I’ll illustrate. Suppose
you were thirsty and came to a river. You could kneel right down and
drink, couldn’t you? And it would cost you nothing, would it?”
“Of course not. That’s just what I—”
“That water would be free,” continued the parson. “But supposing you were
to have that water piped to your house, you would have to pay, would you
not?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Well, brother, salvation is free, but it is the having it piped to you
that you got to pay for. Pass the hat, sexton.”
* * * * *
It was rather quiet at the postoffice the other day and outside of the
Whiz Bang mail our genial postmaster, Bud Nasset, sorted out only two
letters. The first one was addressed to Deacon Miller from his son,
reading as follows: “Dear Father—I am in jail. Son.” The Deacon’s answer
was the other letter, “Dear Son—So am I. Father.”
_Chinese Nightmare Cities_