The Lutheran Pioneer St. Louis — 1890, Page 15

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The Lutheran Pioneer. 15

The Deacon’s Tithe.

ing the yellow stars come out in the sky, and
looking abroad over the deacon’s possessions,
shadowy now, but substantial enough by day-
light. :

any price. Will you take me, and let me pay
for the cow in that way?”

: A twinkle, both genial and quizzical, dawned
in the deacon’s gray eyes. For a moment he
studied the young minister attentively. He
was not at all what his neighbors would have
denominated free-handed, yet he had a just
appreciation of the quality of beneficence in
other people. The prosperity which had at-
tended his every undertaking caused him to
look upon the lack of it in a neighbor's affairs
as an entirely unnecessary evil—one which
prudence and forethought might overcome.
Now he shook his petitioner's hand heartily.

“Tt’s a bargain,’’ said he. ‘When will you
take the cow off my hands?’’

“To-night, if you will lend me your assist-
ance,’ was the ready response.

‘‘Better take one of those I haven’t milked,”’
said the deacon with a smile, ‘‘and save me
that trouble.’’

Accordingly, a little time later, the minister,
accompanied by the deacon, led his recent
acquisition down the farm-house lane, and away
along the thoroughfare of the sleepy little ham-
let to the tiny cottage where dwelt Mrs. Sperry
and her brood. There they fastened the animal
to a convenient post, rapped softly, and de-_
parted.

Next morning when the deacon, hoe on
shoulder, was leaving his door-yard for his
corn-field, he encountered Mrs. Sperry. Her
eyes were red, as with long watching or weep-
ing, and her thin lips trembled with the emo-
tion which she vainly endeavored to conceal.

She put out both hands to him. ‘Deacon
Larrabee,’’ said she, ‘‘I have come to thank
you, and to ask your forgiveness. Oh, I have
had such hard thoughts of you! — how cruelly
hard only God knows — and my own heart.
Why, I almost came to pray that some dread-
ful misfortune might overtake you! — and all
because you would not sell me the cow you
meant to give me.”

“‘T — really —I—” began the deacon. The
situation was a most embarrassing one, and
rendered doubly so by the knowledge that be-
side the open window of the room appropriated
to his library the minister was sitting, no doubt
enjoying the conversation in the fullest measure.
“Really, Mrs. Sperry —I—”’ .

“Now, don’t try to deny it,” Jaughed the
widow a little nervously. ‘‘I know the cow,
Deacon Larrabee; and—’’ she laughed again
— ‘Tam bowed down with contrition, to think
of my unjust feelings towards you. But I shall
always pray that you may prosper, hereafter,
deacon; for I am sure you will have a good
account of your stewardship for the Master.’

The deacon mopped his scarlet face in sore
perplexity. How could he confess that the
gift was none of his? Yet there really seemed
no other way of escape from the one-horned di-
lemma in which he found himself, unless —

Well, the widow’s generous thanks were very
pleasant to hear. He only wished that the
happy thought had been his, the charity his
own fpontaneous deed.

“T am glad if the gift pleases you, Mrs.
Sperry,’’ said he, shaking her proffered hand;
“and now, please say no more about it. Go
into the house and see the woman. I'll war-
rant she has a glass of jelly for the sick boy.’’

To Mr. Weston later on he said with a laugh,
and a jocular twinkle in his eye, ‘I’ve hired
my man, and shall not need you; so we'll shake
hands and call it square. I think that’s what
I meant to do all the while, fhongh I wasn’t
really sensible of it. But I'll tell you one
thing, Brother Weston, I don’t believe the
next tithe will come so hard.’”’—S. S. T.

They had a new minister at Seabrook. Old
Parson Thornleigh, who had kept the flock for
forty years, had gone to his long home; and in
his stead had come an honest, plain-spoken
young divine, with an earnest, fearless elo-
quence of his own. The minister boarded,
having no family, at Deacon Larrabee’s.

‘‘ He's the least bit uncertain on some points,”’
said the deacon, leaning on his hoe-handle and
talking across the fence to his neighbor Gray,
who leaned on his hoe-handle to listen—‘‘a bit
uncertain. But I like him—I do, no mistake;
and I believe the Lord’s going to bless us
through him!’’

“Amen!’’ was neighbor Gray’s hearty re-
sponse.

They hoed a dozen hills of corn in silence,
their hoes keeping time to the merry song of a
bird in the orchard. Then Mr. Gray paused
to wipe the perspiration from his face.

““This hot weather’s liable to make sickness,’”’
said he. ‘‘I suppose you’ve heard that one of
the Widow Sperry’s boys is down with a fever?’’

“Sho! now you don’t say so!’ exclaimed
the deacon, commiseratingly. ‘Make it hard
for her, won’t it?’’

“Yes, particularly when she’s so lately lost
her cow. I’ve been saying that we'd all ought
to take hold and make it up to her. If I'd
more than one cow on my place I wouldn't
stand to talk long, now, I tell you; but I lost
my two best ones last spring. If I hadn’t——’

It might have been unintentional, that sud-
den facing about as Mr. Gray threw his glance
toward the hill pasture where his neighbor's
herd of cows was quietly feeding. At all
events, the deacon could scarcely help noticing
the action. And he understood its purport.
An uneasy flush mounted to his face as he
struck vigorously into the next hill.

‘‘She ought to have kept her cow out of the
road. My cattle never get into the mill-pond
and drown. If they should, I wouldn’t expect
anybody to make ’em up for me. She’d no
more call, had the widow, to let her cow run,
than I'd have to turn my whole drove out.”

“*Tt’s a pretty hard case, nevertheless,’’ said
Mr. Gray.

And then the fragmentary conversation,
tossed piece-meal back and forth across the
fence as the neighbors went steadily on with
their work, drifted into indifferent channels.

‘You are a prosperous man, deacon.’’

A smile of supreme satisfaction overspread
the deacon’s countenance as he stood for a mo-
ment patting the sleek neck of a favorite cow.

“Well, yes,’ said he; ‘‘but I’ve made my-
self. A pig and a pitchfork, sir, was all I had
to begin with.’’

‘‘How does your neighbor Gray get along?”

“Gray? well, truth to tell, he'll‘ never be
forehanded if he lives to the age of Methuselah.
He’s a hard-working man enough, but why”tis
I can’t tell you; there’s never a poor creature
comes into our town that doesn’t head direct
for John Gray’s. Must be instinct teaches ’em;
for he gives to ’em all, deserving or not. I be-
lieve he'd take the coat off his back if ’twas
needed. He's a good neighbor—a good neigh-
bor; but he'll never get anything, to speak of,
ahead.”’

““«But lay up for yourselves treasures in
Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth cor-
rupt, and where thieves do not break through
nor steal,’”’ quoted the minister.

“Yes, yes; but, if I mind me right, the good
Book says something too about providing first
for one’s own household—eh?”’

Mr. Weston smiled. ‘I believe there is a
passage to that effect,’’ said he.

“«And,”’ went on the deacon, a little tri-
umphantly, ‘‘if neighbor Gray would give a
certain portion——”’

‘A tithe?’’ interpolated the minister.

‘‘And not go beyond that,” continued Dea-
con Larrabee, “‘he’d be better off in one respect,
and no worse off in the other, to my thinking.
I don’t believe in—in indiscriminate giving.”

‘Nor do I,” was the quiet rejoinder. Then
there was silence while Deacon Larrabee filled
another pail with snowy foam.

“‘How many cows have you, deacon?”’

“‘Ten,”’ answered the deacon, with a pardon-
able pride showing itself in voice and feature;
‘and it’s the finest herd in our county. They’re
grade Jerseys.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Weston, a little ab-
sently. Then, after a slight pause: ‘“‘ Deacon
Larrabee, I overheard the conversation between

ou and your neighbor Gray this morning, re-
lating to Mrs. Sperry and her misfortunes.
Poor lady! she does need substantial sympathy.
Can not you afford to lend a tithe of your cows
to the Lord?”
’ “Which means that I give one of them to
the widow,’’ uttered the deacon with a wry
face. ‘‘No, sir; I’m afraid I can’t. She wanted
to buy one the other day, but I told her I'd
none to spare. It was all owing to careless-

. 7 lost h , and I don’t beli
There had been an interested listener to the eke ete Get te cing tort

colloquy narrated above. On the shady side} that way, and. we'd all be on the town farm
of the wall which separated Deacon Larrabee’s | before we knew it.” :
orchard and cornfield eat, book in hand, the] Mr. Weston wore a thoughtful countenance,
Rev. Mr. Weston. He arose, as the chat which yet a gleam -of something like amusement
fl P “ be of q| lighted up his eyes.

lated to his hearing began to be of crops an “Will you sell me one of your cows?”? he
haying, and walked slowly away along the| asked.
orchard path with a thoughtful smile upon} ‘‘I—I have no need of the money now,” re-
his face. re the deacon teed hie ed

That night, when the deacon took the shin-| _ The minister Men anne 1d b vas Saeiay cay
ing milk-pails from the dresser and proceeded shishraorning}thetsyous would jbeig trai
to the farm-yard, the young clergyman followed

a good man extra wages to help you through
our haying, but that you were afraid it would
him. He stood leaning against the bars, watch- be

difficult to procure the needful assistance at