It bore
at the top this sentence in large type:
"Is not my word like fire, saith the Lord: and like a hammer that
breaketh the rock in pieces?"
I stood and looked at him a moment. I suppose no one man is stranger
than any other, but at that moment it seemed to me I had never met a
more curious person. And I was consumed with a desire to know why he was
what he was.
"Do you always paint the same sign?" I asked.
"Oh, no," he answered. "I have a feeling about what I should paint. When
I came up the road here this morning I stopped a minute, and it all
seemed so calm and nice"--he swept his arm in the direction of the
fields--"that I says to myself, 'I will paint "God is Love."'"
"An appropriate text," I said, "for this very spot."
He seemed much gratified.
"Oh, you can follow your feelings!" he exclaimed. "Sometimes near towns
I can't paint anything but 'Hell yawns,' and 'Prepare to meet thy God.'
I don't like 'em as well as 'God is Love,' but it seems like I had to
paint 'em. Now, when I was in Arizona----"
He paused a moment, wiping his brushes.
"When I was in Arizona," he was saying, "mostly I painted 'Repent ye.'
It seemed like I couldn't paint anything else, and in some places I felt
moved to put 'Repent ye' twice on the same rock.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99