those words that should have resounded in his heart, for him rang meanings like tinkling cymbals. and from the day when the captain spat and rose and pointed, he carried his judgment on his brow and his three fingers hidden in his pocket. this was no patriot. for church and state, he was a barren tree, but on his mountain side, in a narrow circle of home where his work lay, there he was great, because he was himself. the mettle of which god made him rang most true until the end. and firmly, i believe, this man is not a cripple in the eyes of god. now that's what i call christianity. there's nothing there that could distress anybody. if i were not standing here with my staff, i could well believe it was i who lay here sleeping and hearing, as it were in a vision, of myself so praised. how good it is to be assured by the voice of authority: as a man sows, so shall he reap. and one must be oneself and look after oneself and one's own at all things whether great or small. and if your luck runs out, then at least you've the honor of having lived your life in accordance with the best pr