“Oh, I always give my own money!” said Phil. “I don’t think it’s any giving at all unless you do that.”
“Yours is the best way, I’m sure,” said Tom, soberly. “They say it’s the regular giving that counts.”
“And then, of course, what you give is just so much out of what you’d like to spend on yourself.”
“Yes,” said Phil, feeling very self-denying and virtuous.
“I’m going to try your way,” said Tom. “And I’m going to keep an account and see what it will amount to.”
The three boys were on their way home from Sunday-school, where they had heard from a missionary some very interesting accounts of the great work which is going on in Africa. He had succeeded in deeply stirring the sympathies of his young hearers, so that many of them went away with the solemn feeling that they should in some sense be held answerable if they did not strive to hold out a helping hand to those in such sore need. For the present it was plain that missionary interest was to be centered in the “dark continent,” and little societies were formed among Sunday-school children, they believing it would be pleasanter to put their gifts together than to offer them separately.
Several boys came to Phil’s house on the next afternoon to talk it over, and Phil brought his account-book to put down their names as the first members of their society, with a preamble in which occurred many high-sounding words setting forth their resolves and intentions.
“What’s this, Phil?” asked his uncle, picking up the book on the same evening, after tea.
“Oh, that’s my account-book, uncle; I brought it down to take names and draw up resolutions for our missionary society.”
“May I read it, or is it a secret organization?”