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“Every
Sunday there were half a dozen old
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roosters
who would come into my ward and
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preach
and pray and sing to us, while we
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were
swearing to ourselves all the time, and
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wishing
the blamed old fools would go
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away.
Walt Whitman’s funny stories, and
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his
pipes and tobaccos, were worth more
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than
all the preachers and tracts in
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Christendom.”
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