KIP’S MINISTER.
BY KATE W. HAMILTON.
JACK and Jill went up the hill,’” piped Bud’s shrill voice from the hayloft in the barn where she was hunting eggs. “‘To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill——’”
If Bud’s own name had been Jill she could not have come “tumbling after,” any more speedily than she did. A board tilted, her foot slipped, and in a moment she was sitting on the floor below. Fortunately a quantity of hay had fallen with her, so there was no broken crown or other crushed bones; but her dignity was considerably jarred, and glancing around to see whether any one had witnessed the mishap, she discovered Kip looking out toward the road from a door at the farther end of the building.
“Kip Crail! what makes you stand there for?” she demanded, severely.
“I’m a-watching my minister,” answered Kip slowly.
It is not every boy who owns a minister all by himself, but Kip spoke as if nobody else had any claim upon this one; and as he seemed to have noticed neither her tone nor her downfall, Bud regained her chubby feet, shook the hay from her yellow curls, and going to Kip’s side looked curiously after the slightly grey-haired man, in clothing somewhat worn, who was quietly picking his way along the road. Her blue eyes discerned nothing remarkable, and she turned away disappointed.
“Ho! Why he’s everybody’s minister; he a’n’t yours.”
Kip knew better than that. Did not he remember who always knew him, and stopped to shake hands and say “How do you do, Christopher?”—a name that made him feel nearly as big as anybody. And who always asked after his mother? And did not forget when he told him little Bob was sick? The people in the house hitched up their sleek horses and nice carriage, and drove two miles to the city church every Sunday; but Kip, with freckled face shining from soap, head wet and combed till not a hair could stir from its place, and red hands thrust into his pockets, trudged whistling over the hill to the little frame church where most of the people from the straggling villages and the neighboring farms gathered.
“So he is my minister,” said Kip stoutly as he considered the matter.
He would have liked to share the honor that day, however, with the inmates of the large comfortable farm-house; for they were really the most prosperous family in the village, while he, only a distant relative, was “chore boy and gener’ly useful” as he phrased it. And there was to be a “donation party” at his minister’s home that very evening.
“If they’d just give something handsome!” he said to Nancy the “hired girl,” who was busy in the kitchen.
“They won’t never think of it no more’n they will of flyin’,” replied Nancy, dextrously turning a flapjack, and the subject also, by requesting Kip to “run for an armful of wood.”
Somebody always wanted wood or water, or something from the cellar, or something from the attic, whenever Kip was in sight. But he scarcely thought of the constant calls that morning, so full was he of other thoughts. Nancy might dispose of the question carelessly, but he could not. He was connected with the house, and he felt that the honor of the house was involved. Beside, he wanted his minister well treated and he knew—few knew better than Kip—how sorely the “something handsome” was needed in the shabby little parsonage. He did not mean they should “never think of it” as Nancy had said! he would remind them by bringing up the subject naturally and innocently in some way.
So he lingered in the room a few minutes after breakfast, while Mrs. Mitchel was gathering up the dishes, and Mr. Mitchel consulting the almanac. He coughed once or twice, and then, staring straight out of the window, observed as follows:
“There goes our big rooster! He’s most as big as a turkey, a’n’t he, Aunt Ann? Turkeys always make me think of Thanksgivings, Christmases, Donations and such things—oh yes! there is going to be a donation down to the minister’s to-night!”
Kip considered that very delicately and neatly done!
“Eh? what?” said Mrs. Mitchel, paying no attention except to the last sentence.
“Who’s going to have a donation?”
“Down to the minister’s,” repeated Kip. “Everybody’ll take ’em things, you know—flour and potatoes and wood—something handsome, I hope—the folks that can ’ford to.”
That was another masterly hint. Kip chuckled to himself at his success in managing his self-appointed task but his spirits sank with Mr. Mitchel’s first words.
“Well, now, I don’t know as I approve of that way. The folks here can do as they please—it’s no affair of mine—but seems to me it’s better to pay a man a decent salary, and let him buy his own things.”
“Don’t know as I ’prove of that way either,” soliloquized Kip indignantly when he found himself alone behind the wood-pile. “Don’t know as I ’prove of folks giving me their old clothes,” looking down at his patched knees. “Seems to me ’twould be better to pay me decent wages and let me buy my own clothes. But seein’ they don’t, these trousers are better’n none; and I guess if Uncle Ralph had a sick wife and three or four children he’d think a donation party was a good deal better’n nothing.”
Ideas that found their way into the brain under Kip’s thatch of light hair were sure to stay, and the cows, the chickens, and the wood-pile heard numerous orations that morning—all upon one subject.
“Now if I owned all these things, do you s’pose I’d go off to the big city church every Sunday, and wouldn’t go down now and then to see what was a-doin’ for the poor folks round here? And when I went, don’t you s’pose I’d see how his coat was gettin’ shinier and shinier, and her cloak fadeder, and all the new clothes they have is their old ones made over? A boy don’t like that kind of dressin’-up partic’lar well, and how do you s’pose my minister feels? Don’t you b’lieve I’d know when she got sick, how the bundles from the grocery-store was smaller and fewer ’count of the bottles that had to be paid for and the doctor’s bill? And wouldn’t I hear the tremble in his voice when he prays for them that has ‘heavy burdens to carry?’ Just wait till I’m a man and see!”
Old Brindle looked at him meditatively, and one pert little bantam mounted the fence and crowed with enthusiasm, but no member of the barn-yard offered any suggestions; and going to a little nook behind the manger, Kip drew forth his own offering for the important evening—a little bracket-shelf, clumsily designed and roughly whittled out, but nevertheless the work of many a precious half-hour. He looked at it rather doubtfully. It did not altogether satisfy even his limited conceptions of beauty.
“But then if you keep it kind of in the shade, and look at it sort o’sideways—so—it does pretty well,” he said, scrutinizing it with one eye closed. “I guess Mis’ Clay will, seein’ she’s had to look sharp for the best side o’things so long.”
But how he did wish the others would send something—“something that would count,” as he said. He was down on the ground gathering up a basketful of chips when one of the well-kept horses and the light wagon passed out of the yard and down the lane bearing Mr. Mitchel away to the town. A host of brilliant possibilities suddenly trooped through Kip’s thoughts as he watched the vehicle out of sight. His wish grew into something deeper and stronger.
“Oh please do make him think and bring back something nice for them!” he murmured.
Bud, who had a fashion of appearing in the most unexpected times and places, looked at him wonderingly from around a corner of the wood-pile.
“What makes you do that for?” she asked solemnly.
“’Cause,” answered Kip briefly, with a flush rising to his freckled cheeks. “I don’t care,” he whispered to himself. “The minister’s folks are good and care for other folks, and it’s ’bout time somebody was takin’ care of them.”
Bud did not quite accept the lucid explanation given her. She seated herself on a log and pondered the subject until she reached a conclusion that she considered satisfactory; and after that, though she said nothing about it, she watched quite as eagerly and much more expectantly for her father’s return than did Kip.
There certainly was something new and unusual in the light wagon when at last it drove up to the door again. Both children discovered that at once—Bud from the window, Kip from the piazza—a great, easy, luxurious arm-chair. Mr. Mitchel lifted it out and carried it into the house.
“See here! What do you think of that?” he said to his wife triumphantly. “I happened into a furniture store where they were auctioning everything off and I got this at such a bargain that I took it in a hurry. Isn’t that as comfortable a chair as you ever saw? Just try it.”
Mrs. Mitchel examined and admired; Nancy who came to the kitchen door exclaimed and interjected; and the household generally bestowed such unqualified commendation that Mr. Mitchel’s gratification increased.
“I think I know a good thing when I see it,” he declared, “and this couldn’t be bought anywhere else for that money. Nothing in the world the matter with it either, not a flaw about it except”—showing where the back could be lowered to make it more of a reclining chair—“this spring works a little hard. But a cabinet-maker could fix that in a few moments, and we’ll have it done right away. Kip!” as the boy passed the door—“Kip, could you take this down to the parson’s this afternoon? I want it to go at once.”
Kip could scarcely believe his ears. “Yes sir!” he said with his eyes fairly dancing. “You mean to send it to him, uncle Ralph? guess I can take it!”
He never called his minister “the parson”—it scarcely sounded respectful enough—but of course he knew who was meant and he was far too happy for any criticising thought. That handsome easy chair! Wouldn’t the very sight of it rest poor tired Mrs. Clay? Kip could see just how her pale face would look leaned back against the cushions.
“AND JILL CAME TUMBLING AFTER.”
“It’s pretty heavy for you to carry so far though,” Mr. Mitchel was saying when Kip recalled his wandering wits far enough to understand. “’Jim could take it in the wagon perhaps”—
“I might put it in the hand-cart and wheel it over,” interposed Kip with a sudden inspiration. He could bear no delay, and he wanted to take it himself.
Mr. Mitchel commended that suggestion as “not a bad notion on Kip’s part.”
“And what shall I tell him, uncle Ralph?”
“Tell him—why, he’ll understand; he can see for himself. Tell him I sent it, and he’ll know what to do with it, I suppose.”
Kip supposed so too. He waited for no further directions, but made a partial toilet very expeditiously, and was soon safely out on the road with his treasure. To say that he was pleased and proud is a very faint description of his feelings. He trundled that hand-cart by no out-of-the-way route, and he was not long alone; the village boys hailed him:
“Hello, Kip! What you got there?”
“It’s our folks’ present to the minister,” answered Kip grandly, and one after another the admiring boys fell into line until the chair formed the center of a triumphal procession. The village soon knew of the gift, as the village always did know of everything that happened within its limits, and Kip had the satisfaction of being stopped several times, and of hearing that Mr. Mitchel had done “the handsome thing,” and that the chair was “out-and-out nice.”
So, in a beatific state, he reached the gate of the little parsonage. There was no lack of assistance. Every urchin was anxious to share at least the reflected glory of helping to carry it, and it was borne to the house very much as a party of ants bear off a lump of sugar—by swarming all over it. The minister came to the door, the body-guard fell back, and Kip presented his prize.
“Here’s something that Uncle Ralph sent you, sir; he bought it in town to-day. He said tell you he sent it, and he guessed you’d know what to do with it,” he said with shining eyes.
The minister’s eyes shone too, and then grew dim. This was so unexpected, and it meant so much to him! It had sometimes seemed hard to that kindly, tender heart that the one of all the village who could have done most, had never manifested any interest in his work for those poor people—had not lifted with even a finger the burden of care and sacrifice, or shown any disposition to aid or encourage. But there must have been sympathy after all. This was a generous gift in its luxuriousness—a thoughtful one, for it was for the dear invalid. He opened a door near him and said softly:
“Rachel, look here!”
How he had wanted just such an easy, restful cushioned niche for the worn slight form! The boys could not understand what it was to him in itself and in what it represented—“Only his voice had a tremble in it like when he prays,” Kip said to himself on his homeward way.
However he hated “fixed up company” in general he would not for anything miss the gathering at the parsonage that evening, and wood and water, cows and kindlings must be looked after early. So it happened he did not speak with Mr. Mitchel again until nightfall. Then that gentleman bethought him of his commission.
“Ah, Kip, carried the chair safely, did you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, what did he say to it?”
“I wish you’d seen him, uncle Ralph!” said Kip radiantly. “Not, as he said much either, only something ’bout he didn’t know how to thank you—”
“How to thank me?” repeated Mr. Mitchel in amazement. “Why should he? He isn’t so short of work as all that, is he?”
“Short of work, uncle Ralph!” It was Kip’s turn to open wide eyes of astonishment. “I should think not, with all his preachin’ and Sunday-school and poor folks! I don’t s’pose he thought he’d have time to sit in it much himself; but Mrs. Clay, she’s sick—”
“What have the Clays to do with it?” demanded Mr. Mitchel with clouding brow and a dawning suspicion of something wrong. “I told you to take it to Mr. Parsons—the cabinet-maker’s—to have that spring fixed.”
Kip saw it all then, but he wished the floor would quietly open and drop him into the cellar, or that he could fly through the roof. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and his face flushed and paled.
“I—thought—you said the parson’s,” he stammered. “I s’posed ’twas for the minister’s donation, and so—”
“You took it there?” Mr. Mitchel completed the sentence. “Now how in the world—”
But it was too much to be borne. Kip waited for nothing more, but rushed from the house, and if in the shadow of the friendly wood-pile he leaned his head against the rough sticks and cried, there was no one to see.
“They may fix it up any way they please,” he said. “I can’t do it! I can’t and I wont!”
A little later he stood by the old gate watching the great yellow moon come up, and digging his red fists into his eyes now and then to wipe away some stray tears of shame, indignation and grief that still gathered there. This was not a very nice world anyhow, he decided with a queer aching spot at his heart. Almost it seemed as if he had asked for bread and received a stone—a sharp heavy stone at that.
Indoors Mr. Mitchel had expressed very distinctly his opinion of the carelessness and obtuseness that could have caused such a blunder, and the “awkwardness of the whole thing,” and in no little vexation was trying to find some means of remedy.
“I might write a note and explain, but then—I declare it’s the most awkward disagreeable thing I ever knew! Such a stupid blunder.”
“Papa,” interposed the slow, wondering voice of Bud, “I didn’t know there could be any mistakes up there.”
“Up where, child?”
“In heaven. Kip prayed you’d bring something for his minister—’cause I heard him—behind the wood-pile,” said Bud with slow emphasis. “I thought that made the chair come. I’m most sure ’twasn’t any mistake, papa.”
Mr. Mitchel pushed aside pen and paper, put on his hat and walked out. He really did not know the best way out of the difficulty. It was very vexatious, and in his perplexity he journeyed towards the parsonage. When he came in sight of the house he paused. What did he intend to do? Go there when others were making their offerings, and explain that he had not wished to show any friendship or appreciation, and wanted to take back what had been proffered through mistake? Certainly not! He turned, but at that moment some one joined him.
“Ah, Mr. Mitchel! Just going in? That was a generous gift of yours—exactly the thing for poor Mrs. Clay.”
Others came with similar comment. There was no chance to say anything, and scarcely knowing why or how, Mr. Mitchel found himself in the well-filled room, saw the sweet, pale face, with its smile of welcome for all, looking out from the cushions of the new chair, and felt the quick warm grateful clasp of the minister’s hand. Something in look and clasp and murmured words brought a sudden throb to Mr. Mitchel’s heart, a moisture to his eye.
Then, before he had time to recover from his bewilderment, some one had called on him to “make a few remarks,” and others echoed the request, and he found himself pushed forward to the front and heard his own voice saying, “How much cause all had to value Mr. Clay’s work in the village,” and expressing the hope that he might “enjoy these simple offerings as tokens of esteem and friendship.” Aye, and he meant it too, for catching the spirit of those around him, and swiftly comprehending more of the good man’s life and work than he had ever done before, he only regretted that he had not sent the offering of his own free will and pleasure.
He found an opportunity, however, to whisper to Kip who had slipped in later with very sober face—a face that brightened at sight of him.
“It’s all right. Don’t say a word to anybody about it.”
He had a pleasant evening despite a feeling of strangeness about it, and on his homeward way muttered something to himself about “a blessed blunder.” What he told at home Kip did not know, but when the boy arrived, a little later, Bud, wide-awake and listening for his step, raised her yellow head from its pillow and called:
“Ke—ip! it all comed out right, didn’t it?”
Kip thought it had. He was sure of it afterward when he saw the friendship that from that night began between the Mitchels and “his minister.”
