By Rev.  C. H. Mead.

I was riding on the train through the eastern section of North Carolina.  Nothing can be flatter than that portion of the country, unless it be the religious experience of some people.  The rain was pouring down fast, and, for a person so inclined, not a better day and place for the blues could be found.  Looking out of the car windows brought nothing more interesting to view than pine trees, bony mules and razor-back hogs.  Groups of men, white and black, gathered at each station to see the train arrive and depart.  Each passenger that entered brought in more damp, moisture and blues.

Two men at last came in and took the seat in front of me.  Shortly after, one of them took a bottle from his pocket, pulled the cork, and handed the bottle to his companion.  He took a drink, and the smell of liquor filled the car.  Then the first one took a drink, and back and forth the bottle passed, until at last it was empty and they were full.  Then one of them commenced swearing, and such blasphemy I never heard in all my life.  It made the very air blue—­women shrank back, while the heads of men were uplifted to see where the stream of profanity came from.  It went on for some time, until I began talking to myself.  I always did like to talk to a sensible man.

“Henry, that man belongs to the devil.”

“There is no doubt about that,” I replied.

“He is not ashamed of it.”

“Not a bit ashamed.”

“Whom do you belong to?”

“I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Are you glad or sorry?”

“I am glad—­very glad.”

“Who in the car knows that man belongs to the devil?”

“Everybody knows that, for he has not kept it a secret.”

“Who in the car knows you belong to the Lord Jesus?”

“Why, no one knows it, for you see I am a stranger around here.”

“Are you willing they should know whom you belong to?”

“Yes; I am willing.”

“Very well, will you let them know it?”

I thought a moment and then said, “By the help of my Master I will.”

Then straightening up and taking a good breath, I began singing in a voice that could be heard by all in the car: 

  There is a fountain filled with blood,
    Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;
  And sinners plunged beneath that flood,
    Lose all their guilty stains.

Before I had finished the first verse and chorus, the passengers had crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned round and looked at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud.  As I finished the chorus, he said: 

“What are you doing?”

“I am singing,” I replied.

“Well,” said he, “any fool can understand that.”

“I am glad you understand it.”

“What are you singing?”

“I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus.”