“That,” says I, “was how I looked at it. There’s no objection. Then the Lord’s prayer--all of us together. And the reading--something read from one heart right to another, wouldn’t it be? And then we might sing again--‘Love For Every Unloved Creature,’ or something of that sort. I think,” I says, “we’d ought to be very careful what hymns we pick out, for these Sundays. Take just the religious ones, why don’t you?” “I beg your pardon,” said our minister. “What did you say then?” “Well, for instance,” I says.... “‘The Son of God goes forth to war A kingly crown to gain. His blood-red banner streams afar. Who follows in his train?’ “I call a good deal of that hymn immoral. Think of that gentle soul caring to gain a kingly crown. Think of his having a blood-red banner. Think of him going forth _to war_. It’s a wicked hymn, some of it.” “Oh, well,” said our minister, “those things are just figurative. You mustn’t take them too literally, Miss Marsh.” I looked over at him, across my cherries. “We’re saying that pretty often these days,” I said. “Sometimes it’s glorious true and sometimes it’s stupid false.” “Well,” he says, “that needn’t enter into the services for these Sundays. We might of course do well to pick out the hymns with care. What else had you thought of?” “I thought,” I said, “of having the Sunday School come in then and march down the aisle, singing--not ‘We Are Little Soldiers,’ or anything like that, but ‘I Think When I Read That Sweet Story of Old,’ say. And then have them repeat something--well,” I says, “I found a little verse the other day. I never saw it before--mebbe you have. I’ve been meaning to ask the superintendent how it would be to have the children learn to say that.” I said it for him: “‘The year’s at the Spring, The day’s at the morn, Morning’s at seven, The hill-side’s dew-pearled. The lark’s on the wing, The snail’s on the thorn, God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world.’ “And then,” I says, “have them add: ‘And oh God, help the last line to get to be true for everybody, and help me to help make it true. Amen,’ That,” I says, “might do for one day. Then you talk to ’em for five minutes. And then dismiss them.” “_Dismiss_ them?” he said. “Not have them remain to the service?” “Why, no,” I says, “not unless you can interest and occupy them. Which no sermons do for little children.” “Where would the mothers that are in church _send_ their children to?” says he. “We ought to have the rooms downstairs open,” I says, “and have somebody in charge, and have quiet exercises and story-telling and pictures for them.” “My dear Miss Marsh,” he says, “that would be a revolution.” “True,” says I, serene. “Ain’t life odd?” I adds. “One minute we’re saying, shocked: ‘But that would be a revolution.’ And the next minute we’re harping away on keeping alive the revolutionary spirit. I wonder which of the two we really mean?”