<TITLE>09. Par 25-28</TITLE>L-25 Would you imagine a man on the street naked and doesn't know it? If the man knows it, he will help himself. Or the woman on the street, or someone who doesn't have on clothing... And if they know that they're that way, they'll try to help themselves; but the pitiful case, they're so mentally gone they don't know it.
And today, people walking on the streets of these cities are naked before God and don't know it. That's the pitiful part. They're trying to cover up with some church creed, like Eve did in the garden of Eden, man-made, fig leaves. God requires the shed Blood covered. "Counsel of Me that you get white raiment to cover your nakedness."
And He said also, "Thou art blind, spiritually speaking, blind, and I counsel of thee to buy some eyesalve from Me."
You know, God's got a healing for everything: sin-sick souls, bodies, backsliders. Whatever you are, God's got the remedy in His big medicine cabinet.

L-26 You know when I was a little boy, we lived down in, way down in east--southeast Kentucky in the Cumberland mountains. And my people, we lived in a little old log cabin, had two rooms. And it was a pitiful looking thing. They didn't have any floor in it, but the dirt. And Dad had cut off the top of a stump, about that thick, put three legs under for a table. And it got an old piece off of the barn and made a--a little bench that these little Branhams could set on there and eat their dinner.
And for, there was one bed, and that was papa's and mama's; set over at the left of the house when you come in from the kitchen. And us kids had to go up a ladder, a homemade ladder, two saplings with some sticks across it. We went up in the loft and there was an old, straw mattress. I don't whether you've ever seen one or not, an old feather bed? And they had clapboard shingles on it, and--and this--they was put on in the light of the moon, and they'd turned up. And the old chinking out of the logs... Mom would have to put a piece of canvas over us kiddies at night, for the snow blowing in would give us colds.

L-27 And sometimes like little boys (there was nine of us), how we'd wiggle out from under the cover. And there would... Of a morning our eyes would be all closed from cold. Mama said it was matter in them. I don't know what it is, but she called it matter. They'd stick together, get cold in your eyes.
Grandpa was a hunter, trapped and hunted all of his life. Grandmother was an Indian, Cherokee Indian. And we had a cure-all at our house, that was coon grease, raccoons. Grandpa would catch them, then he'd render the fat out, put it in a can. And it was good for croup, or sore throat, a or--or a bruised toe, anything. It was almost a cure-all at our house.
So when mama would come to the steps, and I was the oldest, she'd say, "William, come on down."
I'd turn over to my brother, Edward, which is gone on now. I called him Humpy. And I said, "Wake up Humpy, mama's calling."
He said, "I can't get my eyes open."
I said, "I can't either."

L-28 And all the little boys couldn't get their eyes open nearly because there'd been a draft across there. We'd gotten from under the cover, the protection, and it give us a cold, and we had matter in our eyes.
Mama said, "That's all right, honey, I'll be up just in a few minutes."
And she'd get the coon grease and set it on the--the stove and get it all hot. And we eat the raccoons ourself. So then, she'd get this coon grease hot, and come up, and massage our eyes with it, till all the matter went out. Believe it or not, she fixed us up with it. We got all right.


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