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Sunday

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Isn't it funny? I started to write to you yesterday afternoon, but as far as I got was the heading, 'Dear Daddy-Long-Legs', and then I remembered I'd promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so I went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when I came back today, what do you think I found sitting in the middle of the page? 

A real true Daddy-Long-Legs!

I picked him up very gently by one leg, and dropped him out of the window. 

I wouldn't hurt one of them for the world. They always remind me of you.

We hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the Centre to church. 

It's a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three Doric columns in front (or maybe Ionic— I always get them mixed).

A nice sleepy sermon with everybody drowsily waving palm-leaf fans, and the only sound, aside from the minister, the buzzing of locusts in the trees outside.

I didn't wake up till I found myself on my feet singing the hymn, and then I was awfully sorry I hadn't listened to the sermon; 

I should like to know more of the psychology of a man who would pick out such a hymn. 

This was it: Come, leave your sports and earthly toys
And join me in celestial joys.
Or else, dear friend, a long farewell.
I leave you now to sink to hell.

I find that it isn't safe to discuss religion with the Semples. 

Their God (whom they have inherited intact from their remote Puritan ancestors) is a narrow, irrational, unjust, mean, revengeful, bigoted Person. 

Thank heaven I don't inherit God from anybody! I am free to make mine up as I wish Him. 

He's kind and sympathetic and imaginative and forgiving and understanding— and He has a sense of humour.

I like the Semples immensely; their practice is so superior to their theory. They are better than their own God. 

I told them so— and they are horribly troubled. They think I am blasphemous— and I think they are! We've dropped theology from our conversation.

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