Several cotton farmers were whiling away a winter afternoon around the potbellied stove. They soon became entangled in a heated discussion on the merits of their respective religions. The eldest of the farmers had been sitting quietly, just listening, when the group turned to him and demanded, “Who’s right, old Jim? Which one of these religions is the right one?”

“Well,” said Jim thoughtfully, “you know there are three ways to get from here to the cotton gin. You can go right over the big hill. That’s shorter but it’s a powerful climb. You can go around the east side of the hill. That’s not too far, but the road is rougher’n tarnation. Or you can go around the west side of the hill, which is the longest way, but the easiest.

“But you know,” he said, looking them squarely in the eye, “when you get there, the gin man don’t ask you how you come. He just asks, ‘Man, how good is your cotton?’”

Beulah Collins, Los Angeles Times Syndicate