“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.”