Excerpt from Your Mother's Apron Strings: And Other Talks to Young Men
A fine old gentleman with swarthy beard sang heartily. As we finished, the tears were streaming down his cheeks; he grasped my hand and leading me aside, said: Pastor, I sang that song at home forty years ago. Mother liked it, and used to hum it at her work. One day, after I went west, I got a letter saying, Mother died last night. Her message to you was, Tell Ben I'll wait for him at Heaven's gate, like sweet Belle And, pastor, I've tried, ever since, to live so that I could finally meet her there.
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