Part 36 (1/2)
I mounted the pulpit steps, feeling rather nervous, and my audience sat gravely down on the gra.s.s before me. Our opening exercises consisted solely of singing and reading. We had agreed to omit prayer. Neither Felix, Peter nor I felt equal to praying in public. But we took up a collection. The proceeds were to go to missions. Dan pa.s.sed the plate--Felicity's rosebud plate--looking as preternaturally solemn as Elder Frewen himself. Every one put a cent on it.
Well, I preached my sermon. And it fell horribly flat. I realized that, before I was half way through it. I think I preached it very well; and never a thump did I forget or misplace. But my audience was plainly bored. When I stepped down from the pulpit, after demanding pa.s.sionately if we whose souls were lighted and so forth, I felt with secret humiliation that my sermon was a failure. It had made no impression at all. Felix would be sure to get the prize.
”That was a very good sermon for a first attempt,” said the Story Girl graciously. ”It sounded just like real sermons I have heard.”
For a moment the charm of her voice made me feel that I had not done so badly after all; but the other girls, thinking it their duty to pay me some sort of a compliment also, quickly dispelled that pleasing delusion.
”Every word of it was true,” said Cecily, her tone unconsciously implying that this was its sole merit.
”I often feel,” said Felicity primly, ”that we don't think enough about the heathens. We ought to think a great deal more.”
Sara Ray put the finis.h.i.+ng touch to my mortification.
”It was so nice and short,” she said.
”What was the matter with my sermon?” I asked Dan that night. Since he was neither judge nor compet.i.tor I could discuss the matter with him.
”It was too much like a reg'lar sermon to be interesting,” said Dan frankly.
”I should think the more like a regular sermon it was, the better,” I said.
”Not if you want to make an impression,” said Dan seriously. ”You must have something sort of different for that. Peter, now, HE'LL have something different.”
”Oh, Peter! I don't believe he can preach a sermon,” I said.
”Maybe not, but you'll see he'll make an impression,” said Dan.
Dan was neither the prophet nor the son of a prophet, but he had the second sight for once; Peter DID make an impression.
CHAPTER XXVI. PETER MAKES AN IMPRESSION
Peter's turn came next. He did not write his sermon out. That, he averred, was too hard work. Nor did he mean to take a text.
”Why, who ever heard of a sermon without a text?” asked Felix blankly.
”I am going to take a SUBJECT instead of a text,” said Peter loftily. ”I ain't going to tie myself down to a text. And I'm going to have heads in it--three heads. You hadn't a single head in yours,” he added to me.
”Uncle Alec says that Uncle Edward says that heads are beginning to go out of fas.h.i.+on,” I said defiantly--all the more defiantly that I felt I should have had heads in my sermon. It would doubtless have made a much deeper impression. But the truth was I had forgotten all about such things.
”Well, I'm going to have them, and I don't care if they are unfas.h.i.+onable,” said Peter. ”They're good things. Aunt Jane used to say if a man didn't have heads and stick to them he'd go wandering all over the Bible and never get anywhere in particular.”
”What are you going to preach on?” asked Felix.
”You'll find out next Sunday,” said Peter significantly.
The next Sunday was in October, and a lovely day it was, warm and bland as June. There was something in the fine, elusive air, that recalled beautiful, forgotten things and suggested delicate future hopes. The woods had wrapped fine-woven gossamers about them and the westering hill was crimson and gold.
We sat around the Pulpit Stone and waited for Peter and Sara Ray. It was the former's Sunday off and he had gone home the night before, but he a.s.sured us he would be back in time to preach his sermon. Presently he arrived and mounted the granite boulder as if to the manor born. He was dressed in his new suit and I, perceiving this, felt that he had the advantage of me. When I preached I had to wear my second best suit, for it was one of Aunt Janet's laws that we should take our good suits off when we came home from church. There were, I saw, compensations for being a hired boy.
Peter made quite a handsome little minister, in his navy blue coat, white collar, and neatly bowed tie. His black eyes shone, and his black curls were brushed up in quite a ministerial pompadour, but threatened to tumble over at the top in graceless ringlets.