FIFTH ANNUAL YEAR BOOK — PART VII. 685 



Peter; the Simon of stubbornness; the Simon of impetuosity; the Simon of 

 self; the Simon of hot-headedness and self-confidence. It must leave for us 

 Peter. (Exhibiting the husked corn.) We see, now, how it is that Jesus 

 intimated to this man, that he was in a milky but promising condition. 

 There were days when no man could tell the difference between Peter's 

 prejudice and Peter's principle; then the husk was around him. The husk 

 was of so much importance, and there was so much of husk, that He could 

 not tell the difference between his stubbornness, which was like a crowbar, 

 and the coming spinal column, full of nerve centers, close in their relation- 

 ship to the brain. We can come to that time, now, and hear Jesus say: 

 "Thou art Simon; thou art a very pulpy, but a very promising Simon. I 

 will make of thee, Peter. Thou shalt be a rock-man." 



Those of us who are over forty years of age can talk in this way better 

 than we could at nineteen or twenty. It never occurred to me when I began 

 to preach at nineteen years of age, that I would find, some day, a sermon on 

 autumn. My sermons were all on spring, then. I dealt with many green 

 things, philosophical and physical. But I knew then that I found myself 

 out of the reach of certain experiences that were the experiences of men and 

 women in my congregation. Well, autumn is here, and it is beautiful. 

 They are not melancholy days, unless they are lived in a melancholy fashion . 



Oh, men of forty, oh, women of fifty— that is an unfortunate break I am 

 sure (laughter)— oh, men of fifty, and women of forty, if you have lived as 

 you ought to have lived there are no melancholy days, behind or before you. 

 Are these melancholy things? (Pointing to the display on the platform.) Is 

 it not a fact that here is the justification of all the experiences that lie back 

 there, in the early growing days, when you didn't know whether to plant 

 corn or not; in the early days when the ground was too wet to plow; in the 

 early days when the ground was too hard to cultivate, and in those days 

 after the corn had come up, and the weeds were growing with all their 

 might, as they always do grow in rich soil? Is it not a glad duty for us all, 

 today, to stand in the presence of an ear of corn, and just ask ourselves — 

 we who are fifty years of age, and more than that, when our mind turns 

 towards the autumn of life, does it turn in the direction of melancholy, or in 

 the direction of golden achievement, and gracious justification of all the 

 enterprises of life? 



But I would not have you mistake me, this morning, my young friends, 

 a thousand of you, here. Do not think that you must suddenly take an 

 intellectual leap, and, by some tremendous effort, bolt over into the fifty's in 

 order that you can appreciate the autumn. Some of the greatest joys in life 

 are the splendid anticipations of youth. But they are anticipations that are 

 bound to be richer and richer, as days come and go if we live nobly. And 

 it is because of that anticipation, because of the imagination, because of the 

 doorways that open into the future, because of the sublime faith that God 

 will keep^His word, and that God will stay with us until we come to be what 

 He wants us to be — it is this which makes the glory of youth. 



I think one of the greatest nuisances in the world is an old person who is 

 trying to seem young; it is an old man who desires to be simple, andaccom- 



