Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm - Kate Douglas Wiggin (black male authors txt) 📗

made a deep impression in several quarters and left a wake of smaller events in its train. This was the coming to Riverboro of the Reverend Amos Burch and wife, returned missionaries from Syria.

The Aid Society had called its meeting for a certain Wednesday in March of the year in which Rebecca ended her Riverboro school days and began her studies at Wareham. It was a raw, blustering day, snow on the ground and a look in the sky of more to follow. Both Miranda and Jane had taken cold and decided that they could not leave the house in such weather, and this deflection from the path of duty worried Miranda, since she was an officer of the society. After making the breakfast table sufficiently uncomfortable and wishing plaintively that Jane wouldn’t always insist on being sick at the same time she was, she decided that Rebecca must go to the meeting in their stead. “You’ll be better than nobody, Rebecca,” she said flatteringly; “your aunt Jane shall write an excuse from afternoon school for you; you can wear your rubber boots and come home by the way of the meetin’ house. This Mr. Burch, if I remember right, used to know your grandfather Sawyer, and stayed here once when he was candidatin’. He’ll mebbe look for us there, and you must just go and represent the family, an’ give him our respects. Be careful how you behave. Bow your head in prayer; sing all the hymns, but not too loud and bold; ask after Mis’ Strout’s boy; tell everybody what awful colds we’ve got; if you see a good chance, take your pocket handkerchief and wipe the dust off the melodeon before the meetin’ begins, and get twenty-five cents out of the sittin’ room match-box in case there should be a collection.”

Rebecca willingly assented. Anything interested her, even a village missionary meeting, and the idea of representing the family was rather intoxicating.

The service was held in the Sunday-school room, and although the Rev. Mr. Burch was on the platform when Rebecca entered, there were only a dozen persons present. Feeling a little shy and considerably too young for this assemblage, Rebecca sought the shelter of a friendly face, and seeing Mrs. Robinson in one of the side seats near the front, she walked up the aisle and sat beside her.

“Both my aunts had bad colds,” she said softly, “and sent me to represent the family.”

“That’s Mrs. Burch on the platform with her husband,” whispered Mrs. Robinson. “She’s awful tanned up, ain’t she? If you’re goin’ to save souls seems like you hev’ to part with your complexion. Eudoxy Morton ain’t come yet; I hope to the land she will, or Mis’ Deacon Milliken’ll pitch the tunes where we can’t reach ‘em with a ladder; can’t you pitch, afore she gits her breath and clears her throat?”

Mrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman with dark hair, a broad low forehead, and patient mouth. She was dressed in a well-worn black silk, and looked so tired that Rebecca’s heart went out to her.

“They’re poor as Job’s turkey,” whispered Mrs. Robinson; “but if you give ‘em anything they’d turn right round and give it to the heathen. His congregation up to Parsonsfield clubbed together and give him that gold watch he carries; I s’pose he’d ‘a’ handed that over too, only heathens always tell time by the sun ‘n’ don’t need watches. Eudoxy ain’t comin’; now for massy’s sake, Rebecca, do git ahead of Mis’ Deacon Milliken and pitch real low.”

The meeting began with prayer and then the Rev. Mr. Burch announced, to the tune of Mendon:—

“Church of our God I arise and shine, Bright with the beams of truth divine: Then shall thy radiance stream afar, Wide as the heathen nations are. “Gentiles and kings thy light shall view, And shall admire and love thee too; They come, like clouds across the sky, As doves that to their windows fly.”

 

“Is there any one present who will assist us at the instrument?” he asked unexpectedly.

Everybody looked at everybody else, and nobody moved; then there came a voice out of a far corner saying informally, “Rebecca, why don’t you?” It was Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played Mendon in the dark, so she went to the melodeon and did so without any ado, no member of her family being present to give her self-consciousness.

The talk that ensued was much the usual sort of thing. Mr. Burch made impassioned appeals for the spreading of the gospel, and added his entreaties that all who were prevented from visiting in person the peoples who sat in darkness should contribute liberally to the support of others who could. But he did more than this. He was a pleasant, earnest speaker, and he interwove his discourse with stories of life in a foreign land,—of the manners, the customs, the speech, the point of view; even giving glimpses of the daily round, the common task, of his own household, the work of his devoted helpmate and their little group of children, all born under Syrian skies.

Rebecca sat entranced, having been given the key of another world. Riverboro had faded; the Sunday-school room, with Mrs. Robinson’s red plaid shawl, and Deacon Milliken’s wig, on crooked, the bare benches and torn hymn-books, the hanging texts and maps, were no longer visible, and she saw blue skies and burning stars, white turbans and gay colors; Mr. Burch had not said so, but perhaps there were mosques and temples and minarets and date-palms. What stories they must know, those children born under Syrian skies! Then she was called upon to play “Jesus shall reign where’er the sun.”

The contribution box was passed and Mr. Burch prayed. As he opened his eyes and gave out the last hymn he looked at the handful of people, at the scattered pennies and dimes in the contribution box, and reflected that his mission was not only to gather funds for the building of his church, but to keep alive, in all these remote and lonely neighborhoods, that love for the cause which was its only hope in the years to come.

“If any of the sisters will provide entertainment,” he said, “Mrs. Burch and I will remain among you to-night and to-morrow. In that event we could hold a parlor meeting. My wife and one of my children would wear the native costume, we would display some specimens of Syrian handiwork, and give an account of our educational methods with the children. These informal parlor meetings, admitting of questions or conversation, are often the means of interesting those not commonly found at church services so I repeat, if any member of the congregation desires it and offers her hospitality, we will gladly stay and tell you more of the Lord’s work.”

A pall of silence settled over the little assembly. There was some cogent reason why every “sister” there was disinclined for company. Some had no spare room, some had a larder less well stocked than usual, some had sickness in the family, some were “unequally yoked together with unbelievers” who disliked strange ministers. Mrs. Burch’s thin hands fingered her black silk nervously. “Would no one speak!” thought Rebecca, her heart fluttering with sympathy. Mrs. Robinson leaned over and whispered significantly, “The missionaries always used to be entertained at the brick house; your grandfather never would let ‘em sleep anywheres else when he was alive.” She meant this for a stab at Miss Miranda’s parsimony, remembering the four spare chambers, closed from January to December; but Rebecca thought it was intended as a suggestion. If it had been a former custom, perhaps her aunts would want her to do the right thing; for what else was she representing the family? So, delighted that duty lay in so pleasant a direction, she rose from her seat and said in the pretty voice and with the quaint manner that so separated her from all the other young people in the village, “My aunts, Miss Miranda and Miss Jane Sawyer, would be very happy to have you visit them at the brick house, as the ministers always used to do when their father was alive. They sent their respects by me.” The “respects” might have been the freedom of the city, or an equestrian statue, when presented in this way, and the aunts would have shuddered could they have foreseen the manner of delivery; but it was vastly impressive to the audience, who concluded that Mirandy Sawyer must be making her way uncommonly fast to mansions in the skies, else what meant this abrupt change of heart?

Mr. Burch bowed courteously, accepted the invitation “in the same spirit in which it was offered,” and asked Brother Milliken to lead in prayer.

If the Eternal Ear could ever tire it would have ceased long ere this to listen to Deacon Milliken, who had wafted to the throne of grace the same prayer, with very slight variations, for forty years. Mrs. Perkins followed; she had several petitions at her command, good sincere ones too, but a little cut and dried, made of scripture texts laboriously woven together. Rebecca wondered why she always ended, at the most peaceful seasons, with the form, “Do Thou be with us, God of Battles, while we strive onward like Christian soldiers marching as to war;” but everything sounded real to her to-day, she was in a devout mood, and many things Mr. Burch had said had moved her strangely. As she lifted her head the minister looked directly at her and said, “Will our young sister close the service by leading us in prayer?”

Every drop of blood in Rebecca’s body seemed to stand still, and her heart almost stopped beating. Mrs. Cobb’s excited breathing could be heard distinctly in the silence. There was nothing extraordinary in Mr. Burch’s request. In his journeyings among country congregations he was constantly in the habit of meeting young members who had “experienced religion” and joined the church when nine or ten years old. Rebecca was now thirteen; she had played the melodeon, led the singing, delivered her aunts’ invitation with an air of great worldly wisdom, and he, concluding that she must be a youthful pillar of the church, called upon her with the utmost simplicity.

Rebecca’s plight was pathetic. How could she refuse; how could she explain she was not a “member;” how could she pray before all those elderly women! John Rogers at the stake hardly suffered more than this poor child for the moment as she rose to her feet, forgetting that ladies prayed sitting, while deacons stood in prayer. Her mind was a maze of pictures that the Rev. Mr. Burch had flung on the screen. She knew the conventional phraseology, of course; what New England child, accustomed to Wednesday evening meetings, does not? But her own secret prayers were different. However, she began slowly and tremulously:—

“Our Father who art in Heaven, … Thou art God in Syria just the same as in Maine; … over there to-day are blue skies and yellow stars and burning suns … the great trees are waving in the warm air, while here the snow lies thick under our feet, … but no distance is too far for God to travel and so He is with us here as He is with them there, … and our thoughts rise to Him `as doves that to their windows fly.’…

“We cannot all be missionaries, teaching people to be good, … some of us have not learned yet how to be good ourselves, but if thy kingdom is to come and thy will is to be done on earth as it is in heaven, everybody must try and everybody must help, … those who are old and tired and those who are young and strong… . The little children of whom we have heard, those