‘That’s a bad word — a dangerous one,’ said the old poet, dropping his dialect as he spoke.  ’It makes God responsible for evil as well as good.  The word carries us beyond our depth.  It’s too big for our boots.  I’d ruther think He can do what’s doable an’ know what’s knowable.  In the beginning he gave laws to the world an’ these laws are unchangeable, or they are not wise an’ perfect.  If God were to change them He would thereby acknowledge their imperfection.  By this law men and races suffer as they struggle upward.  But if the law is unchangeable, can it be changed for a better cause even than the relief of a whipped slave?  In good time. the law shall punish and relieve.  The groans of them that suffer shall hasten it, but there shall be no change in the law.  There can be no change in the law.’

‘Leetle hard t’ tell jest how powerful God is,’ said Uncle Eb.  ’Good deal like tryin’ t’ weigh Lake Champlain with a quart pail and a pair o’ steelyards.’

‘If God’s laws are unchangeable, what is the use of praying?’ I asked.

‘He can give us the strength to bear, the will to obey him an’ light to guide us,’ said the poet.  ‘I’ve written out a few lines t’ read t’ Bill here ‘fore he goes off t’ college.  They have sumthin’ t’ say on this subject.  The poem hints at things he’d ought ’o learn purty soon — if he don’t know ’em now.’

The old poet felt in his pockets as he spoke, and withdrew a folded sheet of straw-coloured wrapping paper and opened it.  I was ‘Bill’ -plain ‘Bill’ — to everybody in that country, where, as you increased your love of a man, you diminished his name.  I had been called Willie, William and Billy, and finally, when I threw the strong man of the township in a wrestling match they gave me this fail token of confidence.  I bent over the shoulder of Jed Feary for a view of the manuscript, closely written with a lead pencil, and marked with many erasures.

‘Le’s hear it,’ said David Brower.

Then I moved the lamp to his elbow and he began reading: 

’A talk with William Brower on the occasion of his going away to college and writ out in rhyme for him by his friend Jedediah Feary to be a token of respect.

  The man that loses faith in God, ye’ll find out every time,
  Has found a faith in his own self that’s mighty nigh sublime. 
  He knows as much as all the saints an’ calls religion flighty,
  An’ in his narrow world assumes the place o’ God Almighty.

  But don’t expect too much o’ God, it wouldn’t be quite fair
  If fer everything ye wanted ye could only swap a prayer;
  I’d pray fer yours an’ you fer mine an’ Deacon Henry Hospur
  He wouldn’t hev a thing t’ do but lay a-bed an’ prosper.

  If all things come so easy, Bill, they’d hev but little worth,
  An’ someone with a gift O’ prayer ’ud mebbe own the earth. 
  It’s the toil ye give t’ git a thing — the sweat an’ blood an’ trouble
  We reckon by — an’ every tear’ll make its value double.