A farmer in the neighborhood gave the little boy one of the first jobs he ever had. He rode one of the lead horses of a four-horse team hitched to a reaper for eight days, for twenty-five cents a day. When the child reached. home at the end of the work he was sore in every part of his little body, and his eyes had been almost blinded by the sun, but he was happy in the possession of a two-dollar bill. His cup of joy was made to run clear over when he found that while he had been away his mother had made for him his first hickory shirt.

Sunday had a half-sister whose death came, some time before this, from burns received in a bonfire accident. His mother had a small picture of this sister, and in his boyish impulsiveness, he at once decided to spend his hardly earned two dollars in having it enlarged and framed. This crayon enlargement is still in possession of the family.

A feature of Sunday's boyhood, which he remembers well, had to do with a sugarcane mill built and operated by his grandfather. This mill was a rude device used to crush and squeeze the sap from the cane. A rawboned swaybacked plug of a horse, going round and round in a ring, furnished the motive power, and Albert, Edward and Will took turns as engineers. Then the boys, when mere youngsters, learned to tend the fires, which boiled the sap to the consistency of thick sorghum molasses. After the juice once began to boil it had to be kept going without cooling until finished. Otherwise it was about sure to sour.

While the boiling was going on a great deal of skimming had to be done, to take out the impurities thus brought to the surface. This often kept the fires going late into the night, and sometimes till after midnight. These sugaring-off nights in the heart of a western wood

were just what a boy liked, and that is why they are so well remembered. The boys learned to cut wood, build fences, care for horses on the farm of their grandfather, and milk ten or a dozen cows a day.

When Sunday was a small boy, he was one day hailed on the street by a man who had the reputation of being as tight as the bark on a tree.

"Do you know burdock, sonny?" asked the man. "Sure I do," said Billy.

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My wife is sick. Get me a good bunch of it quick, and I'll give you a nickel."

Away went the boy on the run to his home on the farm two miles away, and was soon busy in a big patch of burdock. In a remarkably short time he had a hatful of fine roots, which he carefully washed, and then hurried with them to his man, but only to hear him say:

"I don't need 'em now, bub. Another fellow come along with plenty of burdock, and I got all I wanted from him."

The poor boy instantly felt the milk of human kindness sour in him, and going slowly to the creek, he threw the roots into the deepest place he could find, and then stoned them until the last bitter root sank out of sight. He remembers no greater disappointment of his boyhood days.

Thirty years later Sunday was preaching to a great audience in a town in Iowa, and "old Burdock" was in the meeting. He told every one near him that he knew the preacher when he was a little boy, and at the close he went up and made as much fuss over Billy as he would have done had he been his own son. Sunday of course remembered the man and his meanness, in swindling a child out of his hard-earned nickel.

Billy was one day out in the garden with his grand

father, and for a time both were busy pulling weeds-and then the most casual observer would have seen with one eye that only the grandsire was diligent. It was one of the hardest days anybody ever saw for a little boy to be thrifty. It was such a fine balmy day that fish would almost jump out of the water to bite, and soon Billy's thoughts and desires were more than a mile and a half away from that truck patch.

His grandfather was weeding away so busily that he failed to notice that the boy wasn't keeping up with his row, and was rather startled when he looked up and saw the little dreamer sitting in the shade under a currant bush.

'Hello, son; what are you doing there?" queried the old gentleman.

"I was just a-thinking, grandfather."

Thinking? Thinking about what?"

Thinking about what I'm going to do when I get to be a man."

“And what do you think you are going to do then?" "I think I'm not going to pull weeds when I get to be a man. I'm going to hunt around and find a good job I can work at with my head."

And he certainly kept his word, though he probably exercises about every muscle in his body every time he preaches. At all events his exertion keeps him in such splendid physical trim that he can go out and play a game of baseball without being sore.

One newspaper had a careful estimate made, and declared that Sunday traveled a mile in every sermon, and covered something over a hundred miles on the platform in every campaign.

Many of the incidents of Sunday's boyhood which would delight readers to-day have slipped from his

mother's memory, but one in particular she remembers clearly.

When he was only three or four years old his grandmother died, and her death and burial in midwinter made a deep impression upon the child. The graveyard was only a few hundred yards from the home, and one morning, several days after the funeral, the mother missed the boy, but found it easy to trace him by his little footprints in the snow. She found him at the grave of his grandmother, kneeling beside it and saying a little prayer she had taught him.

Billy went to the neighborhood school, the typical country district school, where the pupils sat on rough benches and learned the "Three R's" after a much ruder fashion than is known to-day. Later he went to one of the grade schools in Ames.

Finding it impossible to longer give the boys the proper care at home, and believing that it would give them a much better chance in life, the mother of Edward and William decided, though with much reluctance, to send them to the Soldiers' Orphans Home, at Glenwood, Iowa. In one of his sermons Sunday most touchingly tells the tender story of the parting:

"Four months before I was born my father went to the war, in Company E of the Twenty-third Iowa. have fought and struggled since I was six years old. I know all about the dark and seamy side of life. If a man ever fought for everything he gained, I have. The wolf scratched at the cabin door, and scratched so hard that finally my poor mother had to say to my brother Ed and me

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Boys, I'm going to send you to the Soldiers' Orphans Home!'

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She took us to Ames, where we had to wait a long