IF I should meet God to know and speak to the first thing but one I should ask him would be, 'What was your idea, God, in making me?'
I can believe he had some Purpose in it.
I'm in most ways a devilish person. There's sevenfold more evil than good in me. It is evil of a mixed and menacing kind, the kind that goes dressed in brave and beauty-tinted clothes and is sane and sound. While the good in me is ill and forlorn and nervously afraid—a something of tear-blurred eyes and trembling fingers.
Yet God has made many things less plausible than me. He has made sharks in the ocean, and people who hire children to work in their mills and mines, and poison ivy and zebras—
—and he has made besides a Wonder of things: Thin Pink Mountain Dawns, Young English Poets, Hydrangeas in the sudden Blue of their first Bloom, human Singing Voices,—more things, always more—
When I think of them all a joyous thrill breaks over me like a little frenzied wave. It is delirium-of-bliss to feel oneself living though shadows be pitch-black.
God has a Purpose in making everything, I think.
I am half-curious about the Purpose that goes with me. He might have made me for his own amuse-
