OCR Text |
Show 'Tis Better to Give oyTOM GRIFFITHS the little country church, the I"1 Horace Greentree had ted his Christmas sermon and st reverent gentleman felt 'himself that he had performed iT Indeed, if the collection JJsSy guide, he had done very n For the total, after a large In and a foreign coin of no hie value had been removed, nted to fifteen pounds, twelve DnLs and tuppence. A tidy sum Ld and so pleased was the good rend that he did not even try to to who had given the paltry sum uppence-Out of the corner of his he had seen banker Matthews his purse but he could not be 1 whether it was paper or a coin e placed in the collection box. that's the way it is with bankers, 1 nut so much value on money. of these days, mused Reverend orace, I shall preach a sermon out the camel and the needle's eye, Lps that will help to open wider e copious purse of Banker The Reverend Horace had studied j rehearsed his sermon until he iew it by heart. Tenderly he told of ethlehem. He became very dram-jc dram-jc as he described the life and jssion of the carpenter, and when , told of the merchants and money angers being driven from the jnple he threw his arms with great ,sto as if he himself were using a hip. Then he climaxed his sermon jib a promise of exaltation for the ghteous and for the wicked there ould be eternal damnation. After the usual handshaking with his flock, and this was both a pleasant and an unpleasant task, he would walk home. But tonight he waited patiently for his congregation to leave. To each one he gave a cheery ' "Merry Christmas" and was very surprised when banker Matthews replied with a "Happy New Year." But when widow Mollie Shellabeer approached, the Reverend, being a bachelor of some forth odd years, became strangely excited. Somewhere Some-where in the good book there was a scripture that described his feelings, but at the moment he could not think what it was. The widow, in her early thirties, was a delight to behold, even to the reverend. Just two years previous she had laid her husband to rest with the final words "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust." Molly only wore the mourning black for about a month then she decided to display her wares. So, like a shop window that is all dressed up to catch the attention of possible shoppers, Mollie proceeded to decorate dec-orate her own shop. Now the widow Mollie was not a wicked or a coniving woman, but Mother Nature when she designed her just overdid it a bit. There was just enough of most things and a bit more of others and coupled with all her physical attraction was a warm, friendly personal charm. When she placed her hand in the Reverend's and said, "Reverend Greentree, your sermon thrilled me through and through," he felt like Samson of old, strong and manly. Then she looked up at him with eyes that were the color of heather of his native Scotland and said, "A Merry Christmas it is that I am wishing you and should you be passing my home you are invited to stop in. My puddings this year are' the best I have ever made, and with a drop of tea." Then her voice trailed away like the ending of a beautiful song. The Reverend watched her walk away and somehow he thought of a sailing ship he once saw sailing on a sea of blue. Ah, Reverend Greentree, what an unruly parcel is the heart of a man. He can study the scriptures, he can see the hand of his maker in the heather covered dunes, and hear the music of heaven in the breaking of waves on rocky shores, but when a woman touches the strings of a man's heart a little beastie with a scheming mind takes possession of him. Aye, and the song of the angels is sweeter for God made man that way. After the last of his congregation had left, the Parson started for home, and home to him was a little cottage on the outskirts of the village. As he walked along he thought of the Widow Shellabeer's invitation to drop in for a taste of her Christmas pudding. He had tasted her puddings before and no pudding in the village could compare with hers. She used real brandy for the base, and when she laid a large slice upon your plate your mouth became a mountain stream overflowing with antici pation. There was something about her home too that attracted Reverend Greentree. Perhaps it was the big sofa where two could sit together and look into the cheery fireplace. Whenever he was there he had the feeling that he would like to kick off his shoes, stretch his long legs in the direction of the fire and forget the world outside. Tomorrow evening, he thought, I shall visit her; then, as an afterthought, just as her spiritual guide of course. But the little beastie inside of the parson just chuckled. There was one sore spot in the life of Reverend Horace Greentree and now as he approached it anger filled his bosom. It was the Horse and Jockey pub where beer, ale and other more or less powerful spirits were sold to mankind for the relief of worldly cares. Downstairs, and a little to the back of the building was a side door where many a wife could be seen entering, then a few minutes later, leaving with a bottle tucked under her shawl. Now, as he came near to the premises, Sandy McTavish, the portly proprietor, opened the door and the yeasty aroma of ale smote the Reverend smack in the face. For a moment he was tempted to cross to the other side of the street, but before the thought could materialize he received a greeting from the genial Sandy. "Evening, Reverend, I'd like to wish ye a Merry Christmas." The Reverend acknowledged the (Continued on page 16) |