It was an August day and the sun's rays fell into the valley without a
single cloud for a screen. The little church was filled with worshipers,
while many sat in the shade of the trees that sheltered it, within the
sound of the minister's voice. Down through the grove the hitched horses
"stomped" and switched, but this was the only evidence of restlessness.
The minister conducted the services in his shirt-sleeves, without
collar, and with the sleeves rolled up. There is no organ in the church
and he played a guitar as he led the earnest singing.
The mountain evangelist had but few of the pulpit arts of the minister,
but he had the soul of a great preacher. His life, to him, was a mission
to the unconverted to point out the imminence of death and its meaning.
His belief had carried him beyond and above the pleading of the
uncertainty of death to arouse fear in the hearts of his congregation.
Instead, to him, the great clock of time was actually ticking off an
opportunity which the unconverted could not permit to pass. In his
earnest pleading his voice would rise from a conversational tone until
it rang penetratingly through the hall, and he would emphasize his words
with a startling resound from his open palm upon the altar-rail.
The mountaineers had brought their entire families, and during the
service the smaller children would fall asleep, to awaken with a cry at
the changing vibrations.
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