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From: jay ruiz <jerzeyfinezt02_at_aol.com>
Date: Wed, 28 Mar 2007 22:34:54 -0500

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   The congregation responded in a timid inarticulate gabble, above which rose Deacon Bradleys loud voice, -- Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler. The snare is broken and we are escaped. He read the responses in a slow, booming roar, at least half a sentence behind the rest, but the minister always waited for him. As he finished, he saw the sexton standing in the open door. A little more steam, Jehiel, he added commandingly, running the words on to the end of the text.
   Underneath is another text, she said, and when your day of freedom comes I want you should promise me to cut the stitches, turn back the silk, and take the second text for your motto, so youll remember to be properly grateful. This is the second text. She put her hands on his shoulders and said in a loud, exultant voice, My soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowler. The snare is broken and I am escaped.
sentence, clothed with an awful and unsuspected power, and crumbles theground from under me. For instance, my book inquires after a certain bird --(it is always inquiring after things which are of no sort of no consequenceto anybody): Where is the bird? Now the answer to this question --
changes. These are perhaps all I could be expected to name for nothing; but
Received on Wed Mar 28 2007 - 23:06:04 EST

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