The Preacher, Deacon's Daughter, and Money

1902

A Bit of Parish History

By David H. Talmadge

There was a preacher once whose health was bad — bad as the state of his spiritual being was good, which was very bad. And, although he labored strenuously to perform his duty, as the Scriptures admonished and his congregation seemed to desire, he lost heart and became exceedingly like the proverbial reed. No man of thin blood and writhing nerves should expect to preach sound and healthy sermons.

The thought had occurred to him that might use a vacation if he had one; but as the Board of Trustees did not suggest it, and as he felt that to mention it himself would be to deprive himself of his job, he struggled along as best he could, awaiting the inevitable end, and smiling strongly through his weakness.

He prayed for his lost strength, at times he wept for it. And then — poor, almost exhausted fellow! — he tumbled head over heels in love with the deacon's daughter, lately returned from school, and his cup was full to overflowing.

Then he was in more trouble. No man can reveal the Scriptures successfully unless they hold first place in his mind. So, as might have been expected, the congregation, while it enjoyed the change, looked upon him as one in whom the lamp of intellect was burning low, and shook its heads and sighed — inside. And the choir took to practicing popular songs and the President of the Board of Trustees bought a race horse, and altogether the outlook in that parish was pretty glum.

The deacon who, strangely enough, was wise in a worldly way, saw how things were going. He knew his daughter. He knew she was soft on the preacher as the preacher was soft on her, although perhaps she did not show so plainly. He knew that a wedding was inevitable. And he knew that unless he stirred his stumps — to use his own elegant expression — the girl would be married to a pulpitless preacher of poor health without a cent between them and starvation. So while the preacher prayed the deacon stirred his stumps.

He reasoned, the deacon, that the first step was to restore the preacher's health. In good health the preacher was perfectly satisfactory to the congregation, "He is a corker," said the deacon, quoting from saint no one in particular, "when he is in trim." Which was true.

The deacon, being a practical man, consulted a doctor. And the doctor, also a practical man, wasted no words. "He must have rest," declared the doctor.

"The Board of Trustees won't listen to it," returned the deacon.

"They would if they were convinced that he was independent of 'em," said the doctor, "there isn't one preacher in a hundred, of his excellence, who'd preach for his salary. Tell 'em he's got a fortune in his own right, and prove it to 'em. It'll be chancing your future salvation of course, but it'll work."

"I believe it will," agreed the deacon, after a brief period of deliberation. "But we'll have to make the preacher believe it, too, he's so—so deuced conscientious. Then we'll draw a ten-year contract and get it signed, and then I'll give him five hundred of his fortune and send him away for a few months."

"It'll work," repeated the doctor. "If I was in your fix I'd do it without hesitation."

So the deacon went to a certain city and was closeted for the better part of three hours with a lawyer, and for the better part of an hour with an expert in genealogy, as a result of which journey the preacher received papers stating that a distant relative in a foreign land had died, and that a more or less vast estate was being parceled out to innocent and unsuspecting victims. And the preacher believed, for he was without guile, and the check for $500 was before his eyes. And he hied him away to get his shatteredness together again. And the deacon labored with the Board of Trustees to the end that the ten-year contract was signed and sealed.

At the end of the allotted time the preacher returned and was wedded to the deacon's daughter. He seemed another man. His eyes were bright; his shoulders had lost their stoop; he was his old time hearty self, and collections at the church increased much.

"See," said he, "what prayer will accomplish!"

"See," said the deacon's daughter, "the wondrous power of woman's love!"

"See," said the deacon, "what common sense will do! A heap of good your prayers and love would have done if it hadn't been for me and Doc, and that smashed commandment. Lord, forgive me!"

And it was all so. Beautiful thoughts dropped from the preacher's lips like unto sparks of fire. The congregation came to look upon him as one inspired. And one day there came from a large city church a call. "We have heard of you," said they of the large city church, "and we offer you a salary and an annual vacation." And the preacher waxed exceeding glad, and accepted the good offer.

Then was the deacon saddened. "I am to lose my only daughter," he sighed, "and by own fault. The ten-year contract holds not under these conditions. We'll be lonely here with Maggie gone." But he put his finger piously to one side of his nose, and bore himself bravely. — New York News.