A good father and a good mother--“old-fashioned?” Well, yes; about as old-fashioned as fathers and mothers have been ever since the birth of Cain--taught me from a Good Book that the way of life and the plan of salvation is so simple and plain that not even the philosophers could muddle it--“He hath showed thee, O man, what is good, and what doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with God.” That’s plain enough until some learned man begins to explain it. If that’s all that God wants of me, I don’t care what the “Apostle’s Creed,” of the “Thirty-nine Articles,” or the “Confession of Faith” demands of me. But that seems to include about everything. And yet I believe in “creeds.” How can a man live without a standard? I never worry about the Day of Judgment. That there will be one I am positive. That it will be as dreadful as John of Patmos describes, I believe. But terrible as it will be to have all one’s sins uncovered and set before God and the world, naked and in the light of day, that won’t be one-half so terrible as it was to have committed them. And yet that we rather enjoyed. And another most dreadful thing about the Day of Judgment is the fact that somebody knows all about our sins now. There never was a “secret sin” since the serpent invaded Eden. There have been at least three living eye-witnesses to every offense--the sinner, the victim, who is frequently only the other sinner, and the Judge who is going to try you both. The best time to get scared about the Day of Judgement is about ten minutes before you make a fool of yourself. Life has been to me a pilgrimage of joy. I’ve never had very much trouble, and what I have had has been of my own making and selection, and when I went to the hospital I took my medicine without making faces or asking for “sympathy.” I was ashamed to. Like “Peter and the Pain Killer,” I knew I was only getting what I had asked for. But up one hill and down the other the pilgrimage had lain through pleasant places--good roads, safe trails, fine pasturage, sweet water and beautiful camping places. A few giants, mostly windmills; millions of midgets and mosquitoes, troublesome but not fatal; occasionally a mean man, so ashamed of himself that he lied about it; now and then a liar; once in a while a hold-up man, with a subscription paper; and all along the way a horde of beggars. But in the main good people; kind-hearted, generous people, honest people. Lots of houses build close “by the side of the road.” The world is full of friendly people for friendly men. And I’m fond of people. I believe in them. I love them. I sympathize with them. I like to meet them, and to walk with them, and to have them about me, so long as they can stand me.