<TITLE>12. Par 37-39</TITLE>L-37 Now, she don't catch me by the collar, and pull me around, and say, "Wait a minute, my young man: Let me hear you being out with one woman while you're gone, you're going to get it when you come home." That isn't it. It isn't law; it's love. I love her; she loves me. When we get ready to go, we're both crying a little; we kneel down on the floor and pray God would take care of me and help me, and for God to help me win souls for Him. And I pray that God helps her and takes care of the children. We raise up and I kiss her good bye; she says, "Billy, I'll be praying for you while you're gone, honey."
"All right, dear." That settles it. No more thought of it. Why? I love her. If I was overseas and away from home for a year, I don't care who the who the woman was, if she walked up, some young girl, or some woman, and say, "Billy, would you take me out to supper?"
I'd think, "Meda wouldn't want me to do that." But if I knowed that I could get by with it, if I knowed I could come back and tell her, "Meda, I took some girls, or women, went out to supper. I did, this, that, or the other. I--I--I tell you, I held her hand before I left, you forgive me, won't you, Meda?"
I believe she'd do it. But brother, I wouldn't do it for nothing. I wouldn't hurt her for nothing. I love her. And as long as I love her, she don't have a worry. And as long as she loves me, I don't have a worry. And as long as you love Christ, you don't have a worry, and Christ loves you, you know. It's love that does it. Not something that I do to merit it, it's God's Divine love.

L-38 In closing you might say this. Some time ago, as you know I like to hunt; I just love to hunt, not so much to kill the animal, but to be in the wilderness. And I used to hunt up in the north woods, way up in northern New Hampshire, and up in Maine. And I used to hunt with a fellow up there, little old Yankee; he was a nice boy. I liked him real well. His name was Burt Caul. And I thought a whole lot of him; he was a dandy hunter. I loved to walk, twenty-five and thirty-five miles a day through the wilderness. He was a good walker, come right along. And he was a good tracker; he was a good boy, good hunter. But he was the most cruel-hearted person I ever seen. He would just love to shoot little fawns just to make me feel bad.
Now, if the law says he can have a fawn, all right. But not eight or ten of them a year.

L-39 So he liked to do that just to be mean. And he used to shoot those little fawns and laugh. I'd say, "Burt, how can you do that?"
"Oh," he'd say, "you chicken hearted preacher, thought you was a hunter."
I said, "I'm a hunter, but I'm not a killer."
And he said, "Aw, ain't that all right?"
And I'd say, "Abraham, sure, killed a calf for God to eat. That's right. But Burt, not to be brutal just like you are."
He said, "Aw, you're chicken hearted."
One year I went up there, he said, "Come here, Billy, I want to show you something." And he'd made hisself a little whistle. And he could go just like a little baby deer, little fawn, crying. I said, "Burt, you're not going to use that?"
He said, "Aw, get next to yourself preacher."


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