Part 3 (2/2)

The family had been in the new parsonage only three weeks, when a visiting minister called on them. It was about ten minutes before the luncheon hour at the time of his arrival. Mr. Starr was in the country, visiting, so the girls received him alone. It was an unfortunate day for the Starrs. Fairy had been at college all morning, and Prudence had been rummaging in the attic, getting it ready for a rainy-day and winter playroom for the younger girls. She was dusty, perspirey and tired.

The luncheon hour arrived, and the girls came in from school, eager to be up and away again. Still the grave young minister sat discoursing upon serious topics with the fidgety Prudence,--and in spite of dust and perspiration, she was good to look upon. The Reverend Mr. Morgan realized that, and could not tear himself away. The twins came in, shook hands with him soberly, glancing significantly at the clock as they did so. Connie ran in excitedly, wanting to know what was the matter with everybody, and weren't they to have any luncheon? Still Mr. Morgan remained in his chair, gazing at Prudence with frank appreciation.

Finally Prudence sighed.

”Do you like sweet corn, Mr. Morgan?”

This was entirely out of the line of their conversation, and for a moment he faltered. ”Sweet corn?” he repeated.

”Yes, roasting-ears, you know,--cooked on the cob.”

Then he smiled. ”Oh, yes indeed. Very much,” he said.

”Well,” she began her explanation rather drearily, ”I was busy this morning and did not prepare much luncheon. We are very fond of sweet corn, and I cooked an enormous panful. But that's all we have for luncheon,--sweet corn and b.u.t.ter. We haven't even bread, because I am going to bake this afternoon, and we never eat it with sweet corn, anyhow. Now, if you care to eat sweet corn and b.u.t.ter, and canned peaches, we'd just love to have you stay for luncheon with us.”

The Reverend Mr. Morgan was charmed, and said so. So Prudence rushed to the kitchen, opened the peaches in a hurry, and fished out a clean napkin for their guest. Then they gathered about the table, five girls and the visiting minister. It was really a curious sight, that table. In the center stood a tall vase of goldenrod. On either side of the vase was a great platter piled high with sweet corn, on the cob! Around the table were six plates, with the necessary silverware, and a gla.s.s of water for each. There was also a small dish of peaches at each place, and an individual plate of b.u.t.ter. That was all,--except the napkins. But Prudence made no apologies. She was a daughter of the parsonage! She showed the Reverend Mr. Morgan to his place as graciously and sweetly as though she were ushering him in to a twenty-seven course banquet.

”Will you return thanks, Mr. Morgan?” she said. And the girls bowed their heads. The Reverend Mr. Morgan cleared his throat, and began, ”Our Father, we thank Thee for this table.”

There was more of the blessing, but the parsonage girls heard not one additional phrase,--except Connie, who followed him conscientiously through every word. By the time he had finished, Prudence and Fairy, and even Lark, had composed their faces. But Carol burst into merry laughter, close upon his reverent ”Amen,”--and after one awful glare at her sister, Prudence joined in. This gaiety communicated itself to the others and soon it was a rollicking group around the parsonage table.

Mr. Morgan himself smiled uncertainly. He was puzzled. More, he was embarra.s.sed. But as soon as Carol could get her breath, she gasped out an explanation.

”You were just--right, Mr. Morgan,--to give thanks--for the table!

There's nothing--on it--to be thankful for!”

And the whole family went off once more into peals of laughter.

Mr. Morgan had very little appet.i.te that day. He did not seem to be so fond of sweet corn as he had a.s.sured Prudence. He talked very little, too. And as soon as possible he took his hat and walked hurriedly away.

He did not call at the parsonage again.

”Oh, Carol,” said Prudence reproachfully, wiping her eyes, ”how could you start us all off like that?”

”For the table, for the table!” shrieked Carol, and Prudence joined in perforce.

”It was awful,” she gasped, ”but it was funny! I believe even father would have laughed.”

A few weeks after this, Carol distinguished herself again, and to her lasting mortification. The parsonage pasture had been rented out during the summer months before the change of ministers, the outgoing inc.u.mbent having kept neither horse nor cow. As may be imagined, the little pasture had been taxed to the utmost, and when the new minister arrived, he found that his field afforded poor grazing for his pretty little Jersey. But a man living only six blocks from the parsonage had generously offered Mr. Starr free pasturage in his broad meadow, and the offer was gratefully accepted. This meant that every evening the twins must walk the six blocks after the cow, and every morning must take her back for the day's grazing.

One evening, as they were starting out from the meadow homeward with the docile animal, Carol stopped and gazed at Blinkie reflectively.

”Lark,” she said, ”I just believe to my soul that I could ride this cow.

She's so gentle, and I'm such a good hand at sticking on.”

”Carol!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Lark. ”Think how it would look for a parsonage girl to go down the street riding a cow.”

”But there's no one to see,” protested Carol. And this was true. For the parsonage was near the edge of town, and the girls pa.s.sed only five houses on their way home from the meadow,--and all of them were well back from the road. And Carol was, as she had claimed, a good hand at ”sticking on.” She had ridden a great deal while they were at Exminster, a neighbor being well supplied with rideable horses, and she was pa.s.sionately fond of the sport. To be sure, she had never ridden a cow, but she was sure it would be easy.

Lark argued and pleaded, but Carol was firm. ”I must try it,” she insisted, ”and if it doesn't go well I can slide off. You can lead her, Lark.”

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