(The last of the "Aunt Jane" stories)

"I hear there's goin' to be a circus in town next week," said Aunt Jane, "and if it wasn't for the looks of the thing, jest for the sake of old times, I'd like to go to town and stand on the old drug-store corner and watch the procession go 'round the square, like me and Abram used to do in the days when we was young and the children growin' up around us."

She broke off with a laugh relevant to some happy thought.

"I never see a show bill," she said, "that I don't think o' the time Parson Page went to the circus. Times has changed so, I reckon a preacher could go to a circus nowadays and little or nothin' be said of it. I ricollect the last time the circus come to town Uncle Billy Bascom says to me, says he: 'Jane, they tell me the church members and their children was so thick in that tent to-day that you could 'a' held a meetin' of the session right there and organized a Sunday school of any denomination whatever.' But in my day all a church member or a church member's children could do on circus day was to stand on the street and watch the procession; and as for a minister, why, it wasn't hardly considered fittin' for him to even go a-fishin', much less go to a circus. Folks used to say a good many hard things about Parson Page for bein' so fond of fishin', but there wasn't anything that could keep him away from the river when spring come and the fish begun to bite. And when folks begun tellin' tales about the fishin' in Reelfoot Lake, Parson Page never rested till he got there.

"I reckon, honey, you know all about Reelfoot Lake?" Aunt Jane looked questioningly at me over her glasses and waited for my answer.

"Why, yes, it's a big lake where all the men go to fish," I answered hesitatingly.

The vagueness of my answer was a sure indication of shameful ignorance, and Aunt Jane shook her head disapprovingly.

"There's somethin' wrong with the schoolin' of children nowadays," she said gravely, "Knowin' what I do about Reelfoot Lake, it looks to me like the folks that make the geography books for children ought to put that lake down on the map in big letters and then tell all about it. Why, child, there ain't but one Reelfoot Lake in all the world, and every child ought to be able to tell all the hows and the wheres and the whens that concerns it. Schoolin's a mighty good thing, but every now and then there's somethin' you can't learn out o' books, and you've got to come to some old man like Uncle Billy Bascom or some old woman like me that can ricollect away back yonder. Not but what it's all hearsay with me, when it comes to Reelfoot Lake, for that was before my day; but many's the time I've heard father and Uncle Tandy Stevens tell about it.

"Father used to say that when God created the world in six days, he forgot to make Reelfoot Lake, and when he finally did remember it, after goodness knows how many thousand years, he was so put out he didn't think about it bein' Sunday, and he jest ripped up the earth and made that lake as quick as he could. I've heard father name the day o' the month it happened, but like as not, if I tried to tell it jest so, I'd git it wrong. However, I ricollect it was back yonder in 1811, before the time o' railroads, and it must 'a' been about the middle o' December, for I ricollect hearin' father say that him and Uncle Tandy Stevens spent that Christmas on their flatboat in the middle o' the Mississippi River. They made the trip to New Orleens pretty near every year, floatin' down the Mississippi and sellin' their tobacco or hoop-poles or whatever they had to sell, and then they'd sell the flatboat and foot it back to Kentucky.

"Maybe you think, child, I'm drawin' the long bow, tellin' about people walkin' from New Orleens to Kentucky, but that's the way it was in the old times before they had railroads everywhere. And it wasn't such a slow way of travelin', either. Father used to brag how he made the journey in jest thirteen days and a half. I reckon betwixt the dangers by land and the dangers by water a journey like that wasn't any light matter, but I've heard father say many a time that if the river wasn't too high or too low, and if the weather favored him, he'd rather go down to New Orleens in a flatboat than to go on the finest steamboat that ever was built. You know that Bible text that says, 'Behold, I make all things new.' Father said that text would come into his mind every time he went on one o' these trips. They'd float down the Little Barren River and come to the Ohio, and down that to the Mississippi, and father said when they'd make the turn and feel the current o' the big river under 'em sweepin' 'em south, away from home and into a strange country, it was jest like a man professin' religion and goin' forward to a new and better life. And the slaves they'd take along to help manage the boat, they'd begin to sing 'Swing low, sweet chariot, bound for to carry me home,' and Uncle Tandy, he'd jest throw up his hat and holler every time.

"Well, the time I'm tellin' you about, father and Uncle Tandy had a big load o' tobacco and a big drove o' turkeys to take down to New Orleens. Father said that every time he built a flatboat and loaded it up he thought about Noah and the ark, and this time, when he started down Barren River, it was cloudy and threatenin' rain, and the next day it begun showerin' and then clearin' off and then showerin' again, more like April than December. But when they struck the Ohio they found jest the right sort o' weather for flatboat journeyin', clear and frosty at night and sunshiny all day; and they'd been floatin' along all day and a good part of every night, as they was in a hurry to git to New Orleens and sell their tobacco before prices fell.

"Well, the night o' the earthquake, father said it was his time to sit up and watch the fire and guide the boat, and he was glad of it; for he said there wasn't anything as peaceful and happy as the nights he'd spend on the river. With the moon and the stars over him and the big river under him it was like bein' in the hollow of God's hand. That night he was pretty busy up to twelve o'clock, lookin' out for snags and dangerous places; but about one o'clock they'd got to a place where he knew the channel was safe, and he was sittin' down leanin' against a pile o' tobacco and half dozin', when all at once he heard a rumblin' like thunder, and not a sign o' rain in the sky, and then a noise like the noise o' many waters, and the big waves begun lappin' around the boat, and the first thing father knew the boat was goin' up-stream faster than it ever had gone down. Uncle Tandy was wide awake by this time, and he called out to father to know what had happened, and father says: 'God only knows what's happened! The Mississippi River's flowin' north instead o' south.' And jest then they heard the rumblin' sound like thunder again, and Uncle Tandy says: 'The end o' the world's come, and we're travelin' up-stream to the New Jerusalem.' And while father and Uncle Tandy went floatin' up-stream half scared out o' their wits, the Goshen folks and the town folks was down on their knees prayin', and the church bells was ringin', and everybody thought the Judgment Day had come. Two or three people was so scared they professed religion.

"Mother said she was awake when the earthquake happened. She never slept well when father was off on his river trips, and she was lyin' in bed wonderin' if he was safe, when the house begun to shake, and the dishes and pans rattled on the shelves, and there was father and Uncle Tandy travelin' back wards twelve miles; and when the earthquake was over and the river got to flowin' south again, they floated down past Cairo and saw the big lake, pretty near twenty-five miles long and four miles wide, right where there'd been nothin' but woods and dry land, and the tops o' some o' the biggest trees was stickin' up above the water, and folks from far and from near was comin' to see what the earthquake had done.

"Father and Uncle Tandy never got through talkin' about the earthquake that Sunday mornin', and Parson Page never got tired listenin', and every time he'd come to see father, he'd manage to bring the talk around to fishin', and that'd start father to tellin' about the time the lake was made; and when father'd git through, Parson Page he'd draw a long breath and say: 'Well, that's wonderful! wonderful! It was a great privilege to be present at an act of creation, as it were, and something to be thankful for all your days.'"

Aunt Jane's voice ceased suddenly, and a bewildered look came into her clear old eyes, the look of one who has lost connection with the present by lingering overtime in the past, "What was I talkin' about a while ago, child?" she asked helplessly.

"Wasn't it circuses?" I suggested.

The cloud of perplexity rolled away from Aunt Jane's face, "Why, of course it was," she ejaculated, with an accent of self-reproof for her forgetfulness. "Didn't I start out to tell you about Parson Page goin' to the circus, and here I am tellin' about the earthquake. I'm jest like an old blind horse; can't keep in the straight road to save my life. Some folks might say my mind was failin', but if you ever git to be as old as I am, child, you'll know jest how it is. A young person hasn't got much to remember, and he can start out and tell a straight tale without any trouble. But an old woman like me—why, every name I hear starts up some ricollection or other, and that keeps me goin' first to one side o' the road and then to the other."

And having explained away her lapse of memory, Aunt Jane went cheerfully on.

"I was talkin' about church members goin' to circuses, and I started out to tell about Parson Page the time Barnum's big show come to town. I don't reckon there ever was such a show as Barnum's, nor such show bills as he put up that spring. They was pasted up all along every road leadin' into town, and under the pictures of the animals they had Bible texts. There was the Arabian horses and that Bible text from Job, 'Thou hast clothed his neck with thunder.' And under the lion's picture they had, 'The lion and the lamb shall lie down together.' And the man that put up the show bills give out to everybody that this was a show that church members could go to and take their children to, because there'd be two kinds o' tickets, one for the animal show and one for the circus, and folks that didn't favor the circus needn't go near it; but everybody, he said, ought to see the animals, for they had pretty near every beast of the field and bird of the air that the Lord had created.

"Well, us Goshen folks, we talked it over at home and in our Mite Society. We'd always been mighty strict about worldly amusements, all of us except Uncle Jimmy Judson. He used to say: 'As long as children ain't breakin' any of the ten commandments or any of their bones, let 'em alone, let 'em alone.' But the most of the children in our neighborhood never had seen the inside of a show tent, and of course every one of 'em was anxious to go to that show. We went to Parson Page about it, and he studied a while and says he: 'If the Lord made those animals, it surely cannot be sinful to go and see them; and I see no reason why every one in Goshen church should not attend the animal show.' Well, that was enough for us, and everybody in the church and out o' the church turned out to that show.

"I reckon you know, child, how it is when a circus comes to town. Country folks has their own ways o' passin' the time and makin' pleasure for themselves, and town folks theirs, but a circus is one thing that brings all the country folks and all the town folks together. The country folks come to see the town and the circus, and the town folks, they turn out to see the circus and the country folks, and I reckon they got as much fun out of us as they did out o' the show, lookin' at our old-fashioned dresses and bonnets and laughin' at our old-fashioned ways.

"Well, the time I'm tellin' about, the country folks turned out as they never had before, and there was people in town from all over the county. Some of 'em, they said, had traveled half the night to git in town bright and early. I ricollect the weather was more like June than May. It hadn't rained for a long time, and when the folks begun rollin' into town, the dust rose till you couldn't see the road before you, and there was so many carriages and buggies and two-horse wagons hitched around the streets it looked like there wouldn't be room for the procession to pass. Sam Amos was standin' on the drug-store corner with me and Abram when the music begun playin' 'way down by the depot, and all the boys and young folks broke and run down Main Street to meet the band-wagon, and Sam said he didn't believe they could run any faster if they was to hear the cry, 'Behold, the Bridegroom cometh!'

"The procession reached clean from the depot to the Presbyterian church corner, and it was worth comin' to town jest to see the horses that pulled the chariots, some of 'em as white as milk and some coal black and holdin' their heads so high, and steppin' like fine ladies and lookin' so proud and so gentle, too, and so different from the horses that we drove to our own wagons and plows that you wouldn't know they was any kin to each other. Why, that night when I shut my eyes to go to sleep I could see the big gold chariot and the white horses, and all night long they went steppin' through my dreams.

"Well, after the procession'd gone by, we went over in the courthouse yard and eat our dinner under the old locust trees, and then we went down toward the river where the tents was spread. There's some shows, honey, where there's more on the bills than there is under the tent. I've heard Sam Amos say that, and there was one show that he used to say was so blame bad it was right good. But Mr. Barnum's show was the kind where there was more under the tent than there was on the bills, and the sights us country folks saw that day give us somethin' to talk about for a long time to come. But jest as the animal show was about over, and people begun leavin', a big storm come up. I thought I heard the thunder rollin' while me and Abram and the children was lookin' at the fat woman, but of course we couldn't go home till we'd seen everything, and the first thing we knew the wind was blowin' a hurricane, and it got under the tent and lifted some o' the pegs out o' the ground, and somebody hollered out that the tent was about to fall down, and such a scatteration you never did see. We got out o' that tent a good deal quicker'n we got in, and started for town as fast as we could go, carryin' little children and draggin' 'em along by the hand; and the rain begun pourin' down, and everybody was wet to the skin before they could git to the drug store or the dry goods store or any place where folks'd take us in.

"I ricollect Silas Petty said he reckoned it was a judgment on us church members for goin' to worldly amusements, and Abram said that couldn't be, because we'd prayed for rain the Sunday before. And—bless your life!—while the rest of us Goshen folks was standin' around in wet clothes and wishin' we could go home, Parson Page and Mis' Page was sittin' high and dry in the circus tent.

"Parson Page said he never could tell how he got inside that circus tent. He said he set out to make a bee-line for town, intendin' to stop at the drug store till the rain was over, but the wind was blowin' and raisin' such clouds o' dust you couldn't keep your eyes open, and he was holdin' his hat on with one hand and tryin' to help Mis' Page with the other, and the crowd was kind o' carryin' 'em along, and all at once, he said, he found he was makin' straight for the door o' the big tent where the band was playin' and the circus was about to begin."

Here Aunt Jane paused and laughed until laughter almost turned to tears. "There's three ways o' tellin' this story, child," she said, as she regained her breath. "Parson Page used to tell it his way, and Sam Amos would tell it his way, and Mis' Page had her way o' tellin' it. She used to laugh fit to kill over Parson Page sayin' he didn't know how he got into the circus tent. Says she: 'Lemuel may not know how he got into the circus, but I know, I had hold of his arm, and the wind was blowin' the dust in my eyes, too, but I knew exactly which way I was goin', and I was guidin' him.' Says she: 'I had on my best silk dress, and I'd jest turned it and made it over, and I didn't intend to have that dress ruined for lack of a little shelter.' She said she never once thought about tickets, and there was such a crowd, and the wind was blowin' things every which way and there was lightnin' and the noise o' thunder, and while the folks in front of her was givin' up their tickets, the folks behind was pressin' and pushin', and between the two there wasn't anything for her to do but go into the tent, whether she wanted to or not. And she said for her part she didn't mind it a bit, for that circus tent was the cheerfulest, happiest place she ever was in. She said the music made you feel like laughin' and steppin' lively, and folks was eatin' peanuts and drinkin' lemonade, and the bareback riders was tearin' around the ring, and jest as they got fairly inside, the rain begun beatin' down on the tent, and she thanked her stars she wasn't outside. She said it took Parson Page some little time to find out where he was, and when he did find it out, he wanted to start right home in the rain, and she told him he could go if he wanted to, but she was goin' to stay there till the rain was over. And while they was arguin' the matter, Sam Amos come along, and Parson Page begun explainin' how he got in by accident and wanted to git out. Sam said nobody but a frog or a fish or a Presbyterian minister would object to stayin' under a circus tent in such a rain as that, and he might as well make himself comfortable. So he found a seat for Mis' Page and the parson, and he used to say he got more fun out o' Parson Page than he did out o' the circus, and he couldn't hardly see what was goin' on in the ring for watchin' the parson's face. He had his gold-headed cane between his knees and his hands on top o' the cane and his head bowed over his hands like he was engaged in prayer, and he set there as solemn as if he was at a funeral, while everybody around was laughin' and hollerin' at the clown's jokes.

"But Mis' Page she took things fair and easy. She said she knew the Presbytery couldn't do anything with her, and she made up her mind, as she was in there and couldn't git out, she'd see all there was to be seen. The next meetin' o' the Mite Society she told us all about it, and she said if the gyirls' skyirts had jest been a little longer, there wouldn't 'a' been a thing amiss with that circus. But she said what they lacked in length they made up in width, and the jumpin' and ridin' was so amazin' that you forgot all about the skyirts bein' short.

"Parson Page said that circus seemed as long to him as a Sunday service used to seem when he was a boy. His conscience hurt him so, and he kept thinkin' what on earth he would say, if the Presbytery heard about it, and he felt like everybody in the tent was lookin' at him, and he never was as glad in his life as he was when Sam told him the show was over and he got up to leave.

"Mis' Page said they was edgin' their way out through the crowd, and all at once Parson Page stopped and threw up his hands like he always did when somethin' struck him all at once, and says he: 'Bless my soul! I've been to this circus and didn't pay my way in.' Says he: 'That makes a bad matter worse, and I can't leave this tent till I've paid for myself and my wife.' And Sam Amos he laughed fit to kill, and says he: 'It looks to me like you'll be makin' a bad matter worse if you do pay, for,' says he, 'as long as you don't pay for seein' the show, you can say it was an accident, but if folks know you paid your way, you can't make 'em believe it was accidental.'

"Parson Page looked mighty troubled, and he thought a while, and says he: 'Maybe you're right. My payin' won't help the looks of things any, but I know I'll have a better conscience all my life if I pay as other people have done. I haven't looked at the show,' says he, 'but I've heard the music, and I've had a shelter from the storm and a comfortable seat, and in all common honesty I ought to pay.' So they started out to find the man that sold tickets. But the ticket stand was gone, and they stood there lookin' around, the mud nearly ankle-deep, and Mis' Page said she was holdin' up her silk dress and wishin' to goodness they could git started toward town.

"Sam said he knew Parson Page's conscience would hold him there on the show-ground till he'd paid that money, so he says: 'You and Mis' Page wait here; I'll see if I can find the man you want.' And Sam hunted all over the grounds till he found the head man of the circus, and he brought him around to where Parson Page and Mis' Page was waitin' for him. Mis' Page said he was as fine lookin' and well-mannered a man as she ever had seen; and he shook hands with her so friendly it seemed like she'd known him all her life, and then he says to Parson Page, as kind as you please: 'Well, my friend, what can I do for you?'

"And Parson Page he explained how he'd got into the show tent by accident when the storm was comin' up, and how he wanted to pay; and the showman listened mighty polite, and when the parson got through he says: 'Put up your purse, sir. You don't owe me a cent.' Says he: 'The obligation's all on my side, and it's an honor to this circus to know that we had a minister of the gospel in our audience, to-day.' The parson he insisted on payin', but the showman he wouldn't hear to it. Says he: 'If Mr. Barnum was to hear that I'd charged a preacher anything for seein' his show, I'd lose my place before you could say "Jack Robinson!"' And Parson Page said: 'Is that really so?' And the showman said: 'Upon my word and honor, it is. There's no such thing as a preacher payin' his way into one o' Mr. Barnum's circuses.'

"Well, Parson Page put his purse back in his pocket and thanked the showman for his kindness, but he said he felt as if he wanted to make some sort of a return, and he begun searchin' around in his pockets to see if he didn't have a tract or somethin' o' that sort to give him, and he come across a Shorter Catechism that he'd been questionin' the children out of the Sunday before. And he pulled it out and says he: 'Sir, I would like to leave this little book with you as a token of remembrance.' Sam said the showman took it and looked at it and turned over the pages right slow, and at last he says: 'Great Jehosaphat! This carries me back forty years, to the time when I was a little shaver, goin' to church Sunday mornin' and listenin' to old Brother Bodley preach from the day of creation down to the day of judgment, and sittin' on the old horsehair sofa in the parlor all Sunday evenin' wrestlin' with this very catechism and prayin' for the sun to go down and wishin' I could cut all the Sundays out o' the almanac.' And he turned over the pages o' the catechism and says he: 'Yes, here's all my old friends, "Santification" and "Justification" and "Adoption."' Sam said he laughed to himself, but there was a curious look in his eyes like he might cry, too. And says he: 'Parson, I know you won't believe me, but there ain't a question in this catechism that I can't answer.'

"And Parson Page, he looked amazed, as anybody would, and says he: 'Is it possible?' And the showman handed him the book, and says he: 'I bet you five dollars I can answer any question you ask me.' Well, of course, Parson Page hadn't any notion of bettin' with the showman, but he took the catechism and says he, jest as earnest as if he was hearin' a Sunday-school class: 'What is sanctification?' And the showman says: 'Sanctification is an act of God's free grace wherein he pardoneth all our sins, and accepteth us as righteous in his sight only for the righteousness of Christ imputed to us and received by faith alone.'

"And Parson Page looked mighty pleased, and says he: 'That's a perfectly correct answer, but that's justification, and I asked you what sanctification is.' And the showman he thought a minute, and says he: 'You're right! You're right! I always did have trouble with justification and sanctification, and I remember how mother'd say: "Now, Samuel, can't you get it fixed in your mind that justification is an act and sanctification is a work of God's free grace?" I thought I did get it fixed one o' them Sunday evenin's when mother was workin' with me, but I see now I didn't.'

"And then he pulled out his purse,—Mis' Page said she never saw as much money at one time in all her life,—and he handed Parson Page a five-dollar gold piece. Parson Page didn't make any motion toward takin' it; jest looked first at the showman and then at Sam in a kind o' puzzled way, and the showman says: 'Here's your money, Parson. You won it fair and square.'

"And Parson Page says: 'Sir, I don't understand you,' and he stepped back to keep the showman from puttin' the money in his hand—pretty much, I reckon, the way Brother Wilson did when Squire Schuyler was tryin' to make him take the deed to the house that was a wedding fee; and the showman says: 'Why, didn't I bet you five dollars I could answer any question in this catechism, and didn't I lose my bet?' And Parson Page says: 'Sir, I hadn't the slightest intention of betting with you. I am a minister of the gospel.' And the showman he says: 'Well, Parson, you may not have intended bettin' any more than you intended goin' to the circus, but you did bet, and there's no gettin' around it. I bet I could answer any question, and you took up the bet and asked the question; and I lost, and you won.'

"Sam Amos said he never could forgit the look on Parson Page's face when he begun to see that he'd not only been to the circus, but that he'd been bettin' with the circus man. And he says: 'Sir, there's a great misunderstanding somewhere. Surely a minister of the gospel can ask a catechism question without being accused of betting.' And the showman he laughed, and says he: 'Well, we won't argue about that, but here's your money,' And Parson Page says: 'Sir, I shall not take it.' And the showman he looked mighty solemn and says he: 'Do you think it's right, Parson, to keep a fellow man from payin' his just debts?' And Parson Page studied a while, and says he: 'That's a hard question. I never had to deal with just such a matter before, and I hardly know what to say.' And the showman he says: 'I've got a conscience the same as you; my conscience tells me to pay this money, so it must be right for me to pay it; and if it's right for me to pay it, it can't be wrong for you to take it.'

"Well, Parson Page studied a minute, and says he: 'Your reasoning appears to be sound, but, still, my conscience tells me that I ought not to take the money, and I will not take it.' And the showman says: 'Well, if it goes against your conscience to keep it, put it in the contribution box next Sunday,' Says he: 'I haven't been to church since I was a boy, and there may be a good many changes since then, but I reckon they're still passin' the contribution box around.' And the parson he drew back and shook his bead again, and the showman says: 'Well, you can give it to foreign missions; maybe the heathen won't object to takin' a showman's money.' And the parson says: 'Sir, I appreciate your generosity, but on the whole I think it best not to take the money.'

"Sam said the showman looked at Parson Page a minute, and then he slapped him on the shoulder, and says he: 'Parson, you may not know it, but we're pardners in this game. If it wasn't for the church, we wouldn't need the circus, and if it wasn't for the circus, we wouldn't need the church.' Says he: 'You belong to the church, and I belong to the circus; but maybe, after all, there ain't so very much difference betwixt an honest preacher and an honest showman.' And then he bowed to Mis' Page like she'd been a queen, and took Parson Page by the hand, and the next minute he was gone like he had a heap o' business to see to. And Sam Amos laughed, and says he: 'Well, Parson, circus-goin' and bettin' is enough for one day. You and me'd better go home now, before the world, the flesh, and the devil lay hold of you again.'

"So they all started for town, Parson Page talkin' about how kind and polite the showman was, and how his conscience was clear since he'd offered to pay for his seat, and how glad he was that he hadn't taken the five dollars the showman wanted him to take. Sam said he waited till they got to the drug store, and then he told Parson Page to put his hand in his coat pocket,—he had on a black luster coat with the pocket outside,—and Parson Page put his hand in, and there was the five-dollar gold piece. Sam said that while the showman was shakin' hands he slipped the money in the pocket as quick as lightnin', and of course Sam wouldn't tell on him, because he was glad to git another joke on Parson Page.

"Well, it was all Mis' Page and Sam could do to keep him from goin' back to the show grounds to try to find the showman and give him back his money. Mis' Page told him it was gittin' on toward night, and they had to go home, and Sam told him that the show was most likely on its way to the depot. But Parson Page shook his head, and says he: 'I can't go home with this money in my possession.' And Mis' Page reached out and took the gold piece out o' his hand and slipped it into her reticule, and says she: 'Well, now you can go home. That gold piece won't bother you any more, for it's in my possession, and I'm goin' to put it in the treasury of our Mite Society,' and that's what she did the very next meetin' we had.

"Mis' Page said that Parson Page could hardly git to sleep that night, he was so troubled and so upset, and he kept talkin' about the things he'd done because he thought they was right, and how they'd led him into doin' wrong, and says he: 'This morning when I set out for town, I thought I knew exactly what was right and what was wrong, but now I'm so turned and twisted,' says he, 'that if anybody asked me whether the ten commandments ought to be observed, I believe I'd stop and think a long time before I answered, and then like as not I'd say, "Sometimes they ought, and sometimes they oughtn't."'

"Well, of course the news went all over the country that Parson Page had gone to the circus, and everywhere Brother Page went he was kept busy explainin' about the rain and the crowd and how he got in by accident and couldn't git out, and by the time the Presbytery met, all the preachers had got wind of the story, and some of 'em laughed about it, and some of 'em said it was a serious matter. Brother Robert McCallum did more laughin' than anybody. He used to say that next to savin' souls he enjoyed a good joke more than anything in the world, and Sam Amos used to say that if Brother McCallum ever wanted to change his business, he could be the end man in a nigger minstrel show without any trouble.

"Brother McCallum and Parson Page 'd been schoolmates, so they both felt free to joke with one another; and the minute they'd shook hands, Brother McCallum begun laughin' about Parson Page goin' to the circus, and says he: 'Brother Page, I wish I'd been in your place.' Says he: 'I've always thought a man loses a heap by bein' a preacher. If anybody ought to be allowed to go to the circus,' says he, 'it looks like it ought to be us preachers, that's proof against temptation and that's strong to wrestle with the world, the flesh, and the devil. Instead o' that we send the poor, weak sinners into the temptation and lead the preachers away from it.' Says he: 'I went to that very show, but I wasn't so lucky as you, for it was clear weather, and I didn't have a chance to see anything but the animals.'

"And then, after sayin' all that, what did Brother McCallum do but git up the last day of Presbytery and read a paper with a lot of 'whereases' and 'be it resolveds', chargin' Brother Page with conduct unbecoming to a minister and callin' on him to explain matters. And Parson Page he had to own up to everything and explain again jest how he happened to git caught in the circus tent, and says he: 'It was a strange place for a minister of the gospel to be in, but my rule is to see what I can learn from every experience that comes to me, and I believe I learned from the circus something that, maybe, I could not learn anywhere else.' Says he: 'As I lay that night on a sleepless pillow, the Lord gave me an insight into the great mystery of predestination. I traced up the events of the day one after another. There was my betting with the showman, and I felt sorry for that. But that would not have happened if I had not sought out the showman to pay my just debt to him, and that was a right act and a right intention, yet it led me into wrong; and I saw in a flash that our own acts predestine us and foreordain us to this thing or to that. We are like children, stumbling around in the dark, taking the wrong way and doing the wrong thing, but over us all is the pity of the Father who "knoweth our frame and remembereth that we are dust."'

"Says he: 'I went into that tent a Pharisee, and I wrapped the mantle of my pride around me and thought how much holier I was than those poor sinful show people. But,' says he, 'I talked with the showman, and I found as much honesty and kindness of heart as I ever found in any church member, and I left the show grounds with a wider charity in my heart than I'd ever felt before, for I knew that the showman was my brother, and I understood what the Apostle meant when he said: "Now are they many members; yet but one body."'

"And Brother McCallum he got up, and says he: 'Well, that's more than I ever learned from any of Brother Page's sermons,' and everybody laughed, and that ended the matter so far as the Presbytery was concerned.

"But Sam Amos never got through teasin' Parson Page, and every time he'd see him with a passel o' church members, he'd go up and tell some story or other, and then he'd turn around and say: 'You ricollect, Parson, that happened the day you and me went to the circus.'"