I was filling in for organist while ours was away on a vacation to her husband’s relatives. That sounds so grand and I’d ought to explain that I can only play pieces that are written in the natural. But by picking out judicious, I can get along through the morning and evening services very nice. I don’t dare ever attempt prayer-meeting, because then somebody is likely to pipe up and give out a hymn that’s in sharps or flats, without thinking. I remember one night, though, when I just had to play for prayer-meeting being the only one present that knew white notes from black. There was a visiting minister. And when he give out his first hymn, I see it was “There is a Calm for Those That Weep” in three flats, and I turned around on the stool, and I says, “Wouldn’t you just as lief play the piece on the opposite page? That’s wrote natural.” He done so, looking some puzzled, and well he might, for the one I mentioned happened to be, “Master, the Tempest is Raging.” I was a kind of a limited organist but then I filled in, vacations and such, anyhow. And it was so I was doing that Summer. And so they left it to me to kind of plan the order of services for them four Sundays in September that they decided on. That was nice to do--I’d been hankering to get my hands on the services many a time. And a night or two afterwards, our minister come down to talk this over with me. I’d been ironing all that blessed day, and just before supper my half bushel of cherries had come down on me, unexpected. I was sitting on the front porch in the cool of the day, pitting them. The sun wasn’t down yet, and folks was watering lawns and tinkering with blinds and screens and fences, or walking round pinching off dead leaves; and being out there sort of rested me. Our minister sat down on the top stoop-step. It had been an awful hot day, and he looked completely tuckered out. “Hot, ain’t it?” says I, sympathetic,--you can sympathize with folks for the weather without seeming to reproach ’em, same as sympathy for being tired out does to ’em. “Very warm,” says he. “I’ve made,” he says, “eleven calls this afternoon.” “Oh, did you?” I says. “What was the occasion of them?” He looked surprised. “Pastoral calls,” he says, explaining. “Oh,” I says. “Sick folks?” “Why no, no,” says he. “My regular rounds. I’ve made,” he adds, “one hundred and fourteen calls this month.” I went on pitting cherries. When I look back on it now, I know that it wasn’t natural courage at all that made me say what I did. It was merely the cherries coming on top of the ironing. “Ain’t life odd?” says I. “When _you_ go to see folks, it’s duty. And when I go to see folks, I do it for a nice, innocent indulgence.” He looked kind of bewildered and sat there fanning himself with the last foreign missionary report and not saying anything for a minute. “What did you find to talk about with ’em?” I says, casual.