From his study window he can see the street. It is not far away, since the lawn is not deep;
the lawn a small lawn containing 4 or 5 low growing maples, the house, the brown painted and un-
obtrusive bungalow small too and <almost hidden> by blushing crepe myrtle and syringa <, save> almost hidden
save in the gap through which he watches the street; so hidden is it that the light from the corner street lamp
scarcely touches it.

From the window he can also see the sign
[margin: which he calls his monument].
It is set at the corner of the yard, facing the street; low, 3 feet long
and a foot deep and set about 2 feet from the earth – a neat oblong presenting its face to who passes and its back
to him. But he does not need to read it because he made the sign with hammer and saw, neatly, and he
painted the legend which it bears, neatly too, tediously, when he <lear> realized that he would <begin to> have to
begin to have to have money for bread and fire and clothing. When he quitted the seminary he had a small
income <lef> inherited from his father, which, as soon as he got his church, he forwarded promptly on receipt of the
quarterly checks to an institution for delinquent girls in Memphis. Then he lost his church, he lost the church, and
the bitterest thing which he ever faced
[margin: – more bitter than the bereavement and the shame –]
was the letter which he wrote them to say that from now on he could
send them but half the sum which he had formerly sent.

So he continued to send them half of a revenue which in its entirety would have little more than kept him. "Luckily
there are things that I can do," he told himself at the time. Hence the sign, carpentered neatly by himself and by
himself lettered, with bits of mica contrived cunningly into the paint, so that at night, when the corner street lamp
shone upon it, the letters glittered with an effect as of Xmas: