sat down it the center-field and made my mark, to the great delight of 
the college boys, whose taskmaster I was; when I have been walking 
through the college campus with my Horace Greeley hat set jauntily on 
my intellectual forehead; when my shoulders have been stooped under 
life's onerous loads; when | have been going to the train with coat-tail 
horizontal and legs vainly beating the air; when I have been on this 
farm with my overalls on and hay-seed in my hair; when I have been 
talking to a lady with whom the head of our house had forbidden me to 
hold dialogue; and this villain has moreover sent the head of our house 
the picture (villain! villain!). In short, there is no time when he should 
not have kodaked me when he did not do it, and no time when he 
should have done so that he did so. The kodak microbe is a demor- 
alizing microbe, in my observation, and makes for total depravity. The 
last wickedness this man was guilty of was putting the sun up to take 
my picture when I was in the mild act of appeasing my hunger at noon 
in the woods. This is the picture he took. When we (the other man 
and I) suggested that if a picture was to be thought of the villain should 
be in it, he said that much as he desired to be taken with us nothing 
could induce him to because he had to pull the trigger. He was the 
sportsman, we the game. This seemed candid. We (the victim and 
myself, both good men, he a banker and I a minister) suspected no 
lurking animosity. The villain looked pious (he always does; that is, 
he looks as if he was either at his devotions or going to them) and took 
the picture, but when the proofs were forthcoming gloated over us like 
Mr. Poe's raven on the pallid bust of Pallas, saying, ‘I would not be in 
the picture. Nothing would induce me. I am a temperance man;”’ 
and then, with Mephistophelian finger pointed to the water-cruse in the | 
foreground, which, through his viciousness (the jug was his), was in our 
midst. ‘A Sunday-school superintendent,’’ he said—for my friend the 
banker is a pious man on Sunday—‘‘and a preacher and a jug—ha! ha! 
ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!’ Some people think there is no 
sin, and that wickedness is a piece of imagination. They do not know 
the villain or they would believe in sin and the father of it. I would not 
exonerate him from any evil design. Nothing will tempt me to put 
confidence in him. He is well connected, and is a man of brains, but 
neither ancestry nor culture avails in his behalf. He is undeniably wicked 
and refuses a work of grace, and will not attend a revival. He is a 
biologist, an ornithologist, an entomologist, and 1 would not put it past 
him to practice vivisection on me. I would not feel surprised if he 
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