XXI 
THE CURLEW CALL 
JUNE Sunday morning in a delayed 
spring. I was in eastern Ilhnois near 
the Wabash River as it holds diligently 
to its business of keeping Indiana and Illinois 
apart. My business there was to dedicate a 
beautiful country village church with a tower and 
a bell of golden throat which should, through 
dawning and darkening days, spill down on the 
heads of this countrystead the call to think on 
and worship God. 
After breakfast I started out Bible in hand 
to read that precious book under the morning 
light of the Sabbath day. But whether to read 
the Bible or not it is a heavenly book to hold 
in the hand, for it has innumerable springtimes 
shining through it and singing through it and 
perfuming it. A little way back of my host’s 
house I saw a big wandering barn that beckoned, 
I thought, a little slyly as if making a sly wink 
for me alone to see. I slyly winked in return, 
as courtesy demanded, and with apparent uncer- 
tainty in direction as wood smoke on a sleepy 
evening hesitates aloft before it dreams south 
or north or west or east—and then, my touch 
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