AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION
Having a naturally light-hearted,
merry disposition, Peace did not find it hard work
to “smile and talk,” but it was hard, very
hard, to restrain her generous impulses to give away
everything she possessed to those less fortunate than
herself, and it soon became a familiar sight to see
her fly excitedly into the house straight to the study
where the busy President spent many hours each day,
exclaiming breathlessly as she ran, “Oh, grandpa,
there is a little beggar at the door in perfect rags
and tatters! Just come and look if she doesn’t
need some clothes. And she is so cold and pinched
up with being empty. Gussie has fed her, but
can’t I give her some things to wear? I’ve
more than I need, truly!”
Then the good man with a patient sigh
would leave his work to investigate the case, spending
many minutes of his precious time in satisfying himself
as to whether or not Peace’s newly found beggar
was genuine and really in need of relief,-for
this small maid’s thirst for discovering vagabonds
seemed insatiable, and the string of tramps which
haunted the President’s doorstep led poor Gussie
a strenuous life for a time. But relief came
from an unexpected source at length.
Late one dull spring afternoon, as
Gail sat with her chum, Frances Sherrar, in the cosy
window-seat of the reception-hall, studying the next
day’s Latin lesson, a shadow fell across the
page. Looking up in surprise, for neither girl
had heard the sound of approaching footsteps, they
beheld on the piazza the bent, shriveled, ragged form
of what appeared to be a tiny, deformed, old woman.
An ancient, faded shawl, patched and darned until
it had almost lost its identity, enveloped her from
head to foot, and she looked more like an Indian squaw
than like a civilized white being. Her head and
hands shook ceaselessly as with the palsy, and the
way she tottered about made one fearful every minute
last she fall.
“Oh,” cried Gail in quick
sympathy, “what a feeble old creature! It
is a shame she has to beg her living. Where is
my purse?”
“Are you going to give her money?”
asked Frances in surprise.
“Doesn’t she look as if she needed it?”
“She is a fake. I’ve
seen her ever since I can remember-always
just like this. She wouldn’t dare beg in
town, but we are so far out-well, if you
are really determined to do it, here’s a quarter.”
Gail took the proffered coin, added
a shining dollar to it, and stepping to the door where
the palsied beggar stood mumbling and whining a pitiful
hard luck tale, she pressed the silver into the leathery,
claw-like hand, smiled a sympathetic smile and bade
the old woman a God-speed.
Frances stayed for dinner that evening,
and as the family gathered around the table for this,
the merriest hour of the whole day, the President
suddenly clapped his hand against his pockets, searched
rapidly through them, and finally brought forth a crumpled
sheet of paper, daubed with many ink blots and tipsy
hieroglyphics, which read, “No more beggars,
tramps and vagabuns allowed on these promises.
We have already given away enuf to keep a army.
There are two dogs and two men in this family-so
bewair!”
Even the presence of Peace, the author,
did not prevent an explosion of delighted shrieks
from the little company, but the child merely fixed
her brown eyes, somber with reproof, upon the perfectly
grave face of the Doctor of Laws, and demanded, “Now,
grandpa, what made you take it down?”
“I didn’t, child,”
he defended. “It had blown down, I think,
and lodged about the door-knob. I thought it
was a hand-bill, and rescued it as I came in.”
“Where had you put it?”
asked Cherry, grinning superciliously at the distorted
characters on the soiled paper.
“On the side of the house by
the front door,” she confessed. “That’s
where I put that one.”
“That one! Are there more?”
laughed Frances, whose affection for this original
bit of femininity had only increased with the months
of their acquaintance.
“Of course! There had to
be one for each door, ’cause the beggars don’t
all go the back way, and to be sure everyone saw the
tag, I stuck one on the corner of the barn nearest
the road, and another on each gate. That surely
ought’ to be enough, oughtn’t it?”
“I should think so,” Mrs.
Campbell agreed, making a wry face at thought of the
queer-looking signs scattered so liberally about the
property “How did you come to make them?”
“’Cause of that beggar
at the front door this afternoon,” Allee volunteered
unexpectedly.
“What beggar?” asked the
President with interest, while Gail and Frances exchanged
knowing glances.
“A teenty, crooked, old woman
came to the house while grandma was out this afternoon,”
Peace began. “She looked as if she might
be a witch or old Grandmother, Tipsy-toe-I
never did like that game-”
“We thought she was a
witch,” again Allee spoke up, unmindful of the
frown on her older sister’s face; “and
we hid.”
“But we watched her,”
Peace continued hastily, “and saw Gail give her
some money. She did look awful forlorny and squizzled
up as if she never had enough to eat to make any meat
on her bones, and she nearly tumbled over, trying
to kiss Gail’s hand ’cause she gave her
some money. So after she was gone, we ran down
to the gate to watch her, and what do you think?
Just as she turned the corner, there was a cop-”
“A what, Peace?”
“I mean a p’liceman, coming
along with his club swinging around his hand, and
when the beggar woman saw him, she straightened up
as stiff and starchy as anybody could be, and hustled
off down the street ’most as quick as I can
walk. She was a-a fraud, and Gail got
cheated just like I did when I gave that hole-y shoed
girl on the hill my shoes.” Here Frances
shot a look of triumph at discomfited Gail. “So
I made up my mind that grandpa is right-they
are all frauds.”
“Why, Peace, child, I never
said that in the world,” the President disclaimed,
surprised out of his usual serenity by her words.
“That’s so,-you
said only half were frauds. Well, I guess it’s
the fraud half that come here to beg of us. Gussie
is tired of feeding them, Jud’s getting ugly,
and if they keep on coming I’m ’fraid they’ll
really eat grandpa out of house and home. Jud
says they will. There were seven tramps last
week, and already we have had two this week, and one
beggar. So I made these signs and stuck them
up where everybody’d see them and know they
meant business, w’thout Jud’s having to
turn the dogs loose or get his shotgun like he said
he ought to. He told me that all hoboes have
some way of letting other hoboes know where they can
get a square meal, and that’s why we have so
many. He says they never used to bother so until
I came here to tow them along by coaxing Gussie to
feed ’em. I thought I was being good to
’em. S’posing we had sent grandpa
away when he came tramping around to our house in
Parker-Faith wanted to-where
would we be now? Still grubbing in Parker trying
to get enough to eat, ’most likely; or maybe
in the poorhouse, for ’twas grandpa who paid
the mortgage on the farm. I guess I must wait
till I’m grown way up to have any missionary
sense.”
She spoke so dejectedly and her face
looked so pathetic and utterly discouraged that no
one had the heart to laugh, but a sudden feeling of
restraint fell upon the group. Even the President
had no words in which to answer the poor, disheartened
little missionary.
“Do you belong to Miss Smiley’s
Gleaners?” It was Frances who spoke, and though
the words themselves signified little, her tone of
voice was like an electric thrill, and the faces of
the whole company turned expectantly toward her as
she waited for Peace’s answer.
“No, not yet. Evelyn has
been after us ever since we came here to join them,
but something has always kept us away from the meetings
each month, so we haven’t been ’lected
yet. Evelyn says they don’t do much but
have a good time, anyway, though it is a missionary
society. That’s about all our Sunshine
Club in Parker ever did, too, ’xcept make comfort
powders for the sick and mained in the hospital.”
“Evelyn is right about what
the Gleaners used to be, but since her aunt has taken
up the work, they are doing lots of real missionary
work. Why, since Christmas they have raised enough
money to take care of two orphans in India for a year.
Edith Smiley is such a beautiful girl-”
“Ain’t she, though!”
Peace burst out with customary impetuosity. “I’ve
wanted her for my Sunday School teacher ever since
we began to go to South Avenue Church, but she’s
got a class of boys.”
“And don’t they adore her!”
“No more’n I would.”
“It is easier to get teachers
for girls’ classes; and besides, Miss Edith
has had these boys from the time she started to teach.
She certainly has her hands full with her Sunday School
class, the Gleaners Missionary Band and the Young
People’s Society, for she is our president this
term. There is no lag about her. She is always
planning something beautiful for somebody. Everyone
loves her. When Victor was in the hospital the
time he was hurt by the runaway, Miss Edith took him
flowers several times; and the nurse told us that she
visits the children’s ward twice a month regularly
and takes them fruit or flowers or scrap-books or
something nice. They always know when to expect
her, and she never disappoints them.”
“She certainly knows how to
make sunshine for those around her,” said Mrs.
Campbell warmly. “I am so pleased to think
she could take charge of the Gleaners. We ladies
were really afraid the society must die. Miss
Hilliker had neither strength, time nor talent to do
justice to the work; but, poor soul, she did try so
hard, and she did give the children a good time, whether
or not they ever accomplished anything else.”
“I am glad Miss Smiley has taken
the Gleaners, too,” said Peace meditatively.
“Me and Allee ’xpect to join at next meeting.
I guess maybe Cherry and Hope will, too, though I
haven’t asked them yet.”
“I think you have headed them
in the right direction, Frances,” whispered
the President in grateful tones, when at last the dinner
was ended and the chattering group were filing out
of the dining-room. “I was beginning to
wonder what in the world to do with our little Peace,
but I think perhaps Miss Smiley will help solve the
problem for us.”
“I know she will,” Frances
replied confidently. “I can understand how
discouraged poor Peace must feel. I’ve been
there myself, only instead of giving away my own things
as she does, I gave away other people’s belongings.
I can never forget the séance I had with mother the
day I handed over father’s best, go-to-meeting
overcoat to a dirty, evil-looking tramp, and gave
away Victor’s velocipede to the ash-man’s
little boy. I came to the conclusion that the
whole world was just a sham and all men-yes,
and women-were liars. Mrs. Smiley came
to my rescue, and what missionary spirit there is
left in me is due to her good work and untiring efforts.
Edith is a second edition of her mother.”
“And I think Frances must be
second cousin at heart,” said the Doctor, gently
pressing her hand.
“I don’t deserve such
praise,” she protested, blushing with pleasure
at his compliment. “I have only tried to
make the most of the best in me, remembering the little
verse we had for a motto:
’No robin but may thrill
some heart,
His dawnlight
gladness voicing.
God gives us all some small
sweet way
To set the world
rejoicing.’
“We were only children when
we took that as our class motto, but we have kept
it all these years, and I know there is not one of
the girls who considers it childish sentiment even
yet.”
“That is why I am particularly
thankful for your words at the table tonight.
I want my girls to meet and mingle with and be influenced
by such people as Miss Edith and her mother-and
Miss Frances!”
“I shall work hard to keep the
reputation you have given me,” she laughed gayly,
flitting away to join Gail in the Grove, as the pink
and green and brown room was called; but she was secretly
much touched and helped by the President’s words,
and rejoiced openly when a few days later the four
younger Greenfield girls really did join the Gleaners
Missionary Band and became active workers in that field.
“It is kind of a queer missionary
society,” Peace reported after one of the meetings.
“Sometimes we don’t say hardly a word about
heathen or poor ministers on the frontier all the
time we are at the church. We talk about how
we can help each other and our families and folks who
live close by us. Miss Edith says first and foremost
a good missionary must be cheerful and sunshiny.
Our motto is “Scatter Sunshine,” and our
song is the prettiest music I ever heard. She
says it isn’t the music that counts, it’s
the words, but just s’posing we sang:
’In a world where sorrow
Ever will be known,
Where are found the needy,
And the sad and
lone;
How much joy and comfort
You can all bestow,
If you scatter sunshine
Everywhere you
go.’
to the tune of ‘Go tell Aunt
Rhody,’ it wouldn’t cheer me up
very much. “Would it you?”
“No,” laughed Mrs. Campbell,
who chanced to be her confidante on this particular
occasion, “I don’t think it would; but
on the other hand, meaningless words would not cheer
anyone, either, no matter how pretty the tune.
Is that not so?”
“Yes, I s’pose it is.
I guess it takes both together to do the work.
This week our verse is:
’Can I help another
By some word or
deed?
Can I scatter blessings
O’er a soul’s
sore need?
If I can, then let me
Now, within today,
Help the one who needs me
On a little way.’
“The next time we tell if we
remembered the verse and worked it.”
“Worked it?” Mrs. Campbell
was not yet accustomed to Peace’s queer speeches,
and often did not understand her meaning.
“Yes. Miss Edith says just
helping Gussie carry the dishes away nights, or buttoning
Marie’s dress when she is cross and in a hurry,
or getting grandpa’s slippers ready for him
when he comes home from the University all cold and
tired, or holding that squirmy yarn for you when you
knit those ugly shawls, or talking nice to Jud when
he makes me mad, is being a missionary. She says
it is the little, everyday things that count; for
some of us may never get a chance to do anything real
big and splendid, and if we wait all our lives for
such a time to come along, we will be just wasting
our talents. But all of us have hundreds of little
things each day to do, and if we do them cheerfully
and sweetly, we are being sunshine missionaries and
are making others happier all the time. She says
Abr’am Lincoln’s greatest wish was to have
it said of him when he died that he had always tried
to pull up a thistle and plant a flower wherever he
got a chance. Thistles mean hard feelings and
mean acts, and the flowers are kind words and deeds.”
“Miss Edith has found the key
to true happiness,” murmured Mrs. Campbell,
glancing out of the window at a tall, slender, gray-eyed
young lady hurrying down the street, surrounded by
a bevy of bright-faced, adoring boys and girls.
“Yes, she’s another Saint
Elspeth, isn’t she? How nice it is to have
her here as long as I can’t have my dear Mrs.
Strong! And do you know, grandma, she and Mrs.
Strong were chums when they went to college? Isn’t
that queer?”
“How did you happen to find that out?”
“’Cause on my list of
missionary doings this week I had ’not getting
mad when Gray chawed up St. Elspeth’s letter
’fore I had read it more’n three times.’
And she asked me who Saint Elspeth was.”
“Do you make out a list of missionary
doings each week?” asked Mrs. Campbell, amused
at Peace’s version of the occurrence, for the
child had been so angry at the destruction of the
letter from this beloved friend that she had seized
a heavy club and rushed at the cowering pup as if
bent on crushing its skull. Before the blow descended,
however, she dropped her weapon, bounced into a nearby
chair, and glared wrathfully at poor Gray until he
shrank from her almost as if she had struck him.
Then suddenly the anger died from her eyes, and clutching
the surprised animal about the neck she fell to petting
him energetically, exclaiming in pitying tones, “Poor
Gray, I don’t s’pose you know how near
I came to knocking your head off any more’n
you know how much I wanted that letter you’ve
just swallowed, but I’m sorry just the same.
Shake hands and be friends!”
Peace, not understanding the smile
that crept over the gentle face of the dear old lady,
hastened to explain, “We write them so’s
folks won’t laugh. We don’t mean
to laugh at each other, but sometimes children do
say the funniest things. There is Bernice Platte
for one. She can’t say anything the way
she wants to, and it makes her feel bad when we giggle.
So Miss Edith took to having us write our lists.
I don’t care how much they laugh at me, I get
so much of that at home that I am used to it, but
some folks ain’t brought up that way and I s’pose
it hurts.”
Mrs. Campbell caught her breath sharply.
It had never occurred to her before that Peace was
sensitive, but the gusty sigh with which these words
were spoken told her companion much, and slipping her
arm about the little figure crouched at her side,
the woman said gently, “Would you mind telling
grandma some of the bits of sunshine you have been
scattering this week?”
The wistful round face brightened
quickly. “Would you care to hear?”
“I should love to, dearie.”
“I didn’t make
much sunshine, I guess, ’nless ’twas here
at home where folks know me, but I tried. You
know Hope has been taking flowers to one of her teachers
at High School, and the other day Miss Pope told her
that she gave them all to her brother who is lame and
can’t walk, and he spends all his days drawing
and painting the pretty things he sees. Well,
there is a teacher in our school who looks awful turned-down
at the mouth, and kind of sour like, and last week
Minnie Herbert told me that it was ’cause the
woman had lost her brother in a wreck. So I thought
maybe she’d like some flowers, and I took her
some. I didn’t know her name, but she was
sitting in the hall to keep order during recess time,
and I carried the bouquet right up to her and laid
them in her lap. I ’xpected to see her
smile, but instead, she picked them up and looked
kind of red as she asked me what made me bring them
to her. I meant to tell her I was sorry she looked
so lonely and sad, but what I really said was ‘homely
and bad.’ I don’t see why it is I
always twist things up so, but that made her mad and
I couldn’t explain it so’s she would take
the flowers again, and I had to give them to one of
the girls whose mother has delirious tremors.”
“Oh, Peace, you have made a mistake.”
“What is it, then?”
“I presume the poor woman is delirious with
a fever of some sort.”
“Tryfoid,” supplied
Peace. “Stella told teacher so. That
same day on my way home from school I saw a little
girl lugging a heavy pail, and the handle kept cutting
her hands, so she had to set it down every few steps
and change to the other side. When I asked her
to let me help, she gave me hold, and we carried the
bucket down the alley to a chicken-coop, where it
had to be dumped, ’cause it was slops for the
hens. There was a big box there to stand on, and
I lifted the pail to the top of the fence and emptied
it, but the woman which owns the chickens was right
under where the stuff fell, and she didn’t like
it a bit, and scolded us both good.
“Then there was Birdie Holden
who wanted a bite of my apple, and when I turned it
around to give her a good chance at it, she bit straight
into a worm, and said I did it on purpose, though
I never knew the worm was there any more’n she
did.
“But the worst of all was the
day teacher sent me to the office for thumb tacks
to fasten up our drawings around the room. She
told me to see how quick I could get back, but she
never counted on the principal’s not being
there, which she wasn’t. So I had to wait.
Then all at once I saw a big sign on the wall which
said if Miss Lisk wasn’t in and folks were in
a hurry, to ring the bell twice.
“I was in a big hurry
for I had waited so long already that I thought sure
Miss Allen would be after me in a minute to see if
I was making the tacks; so I grabbed the cord and
jerked the bell hard twice, and then twice again,
and then twice the third time. I ’xpected
she’d come a-running at that, but what do you
think, grandma? Everyone in that schoolhouse
just got up and hustled out of doors as fast as they
could march. We never used to have fire drill
in Parker and I hadn’t heard of such a thing
here, either, so I was dreadfully s’prised to
find what my gong-ringing had done. Maybe Miss
Lisk wasn’t mad for a minute, when she saw me
hanging out of the window yelling to know what was
the matter, ’cause I was in a hurry for my thumb-tacks!
But afterwards she laughed like anything and said
the children made record time in getting out, ’cause
no one, not even she herself, knew whether it was just
a fire drill or whether the janitor had rung the gong
on account of the school’s really being burned
up.”
No one could blame the good dame for
smiling at the vivid pictures Peace had painted of
her missionary efforts, but Mrs. Campbell knew how
sore the little heart must be over these seeming failures,
so she pressed the nestling head closer to her shoulder
and said comfortingly, “But think of all the
smiles you have won from the washerwoman. When
I paid her last night, she showed me the big bunch
of flowers you had cut from your hyacinths and lilies
in the conservatory, and told me how eagerly her poor,
sick little girl watched for her home-coming the days
she washed here, knowing that you would never forget
to send her something. And Jud was telling your
grandpa only this morning how the ash-man’s horse
always whinnies when the team stops in the alley, because
you never fail to be there with a lump of sugar or
a handful of oats. Mrs. Dodds says it is a real
pleasure to make dresses for you, just to hear you
praise her work. I was in the kitchen this morning
when the grocer brought our order, and after he was
gone, Gussie showed me a sack of candy he had slipped
in for you, because you are so kind to his little girl
at school. I don’t need Jud’s words
to tell me how the horses and other animals on the
place love you. And why? Because you love
them and never hurt them.”
“But, grandma,” interrupted
Peace, her eyes wide with amazement at this recital;
“you don’t call those things scattering
sunshine, do you?”
“What would you call it, dear?”
“But-but-I
didn’t do those things on purpose, grandma.
They-they just did themselves. I like
to see Mrs. O’Flaherty’s eyes shine and
hear her say, ‘May the saints in Hivin bliss
ye, darlint,’ when I give her anything for Maggie;
and the ash-man’s horse doesn’t get enough
to eat-really, it is ’most starved,
I guess; and Mrs. Dodds does look so tickled when
I say anything she makes is pretty. They are
pretty, too. And the grocer’s little girl
is so scared if anyone speaks to her that a lot of
the bigger girls got to teasing her dreadfully and
I couldn’t help lighting into them and telling
them they ought to be ashamed of themselves; and-”
“That is what I call
scattering sunshine, dear. It is these little
acts of ours which count, these acts done unconsciously,
without any thought of others seeing, done simply
because our hearts are so full of love and sympathy
that they bubble over without our knowing it, and
others are made happy because of our unselfishness.”
“I guess you’re right,”
said Peace thoughtfully; “’cause when folks
are watching and I want to be ’specially sweet
and nice and helpful, I just make a dreadful bungle
of it, and everyone laughs. It’s the things
we do without thinking that make folks happiest.
That is what Saint Elspeth used to tell me. Some
way I could understand her better than Miss Edith,
I guess; but maybe it was ’cause I knew her better.
When do you s’pose we can go to see her, grandma?
Saint Elspeth, I mean. It has been such a long
time since-”
“She wants you next week, you and Allee.”
It was the President who spoke, and
with a startled cry, Peace leaped up to find him in
the doorway behind them. “Why, Grandpa Campbell,
how did you sneak in here so softly? I never
heard you at all, you came so catty. Did you
hear what we were talking about?”
“Not much of it. I arrived
just in time to catch your remarks about Mrs. Strong,
and as I happen to have a note in my pocket this minute
from your Saint John, I spoke right out without thinking.
I was intending to make you and grandma jump a little.”
“You made me jump a lot,”
she retorted, throwing her arms about him and giving
him a rapturous hug. “Did you really mean
that Mrs. Strong wants me next week? That is
our spring vacation here in Martindale.”
“Yes, so the letter said.
You see, the Strongs are living in Martindale now,
too.”
“Grandpa! You’re fooling!”
“Not this time. I have
known for a whole month that there was some prospect
of their coming to the city, but I waited until I was
sure before saying anything, because I knew you girls
would be disappointed if they did not get the place.”
“What place? How did it
happen? What will Parker do without him?
Will he live near us? Can we see them often?
Where did you get the note?”
“One question at a time, please,”
he cried laughingly. “Mr. Strong dropped
in at the University a minute this afternoon.
He has been called to fill the vacancy at Hill Street
Church, and has accepted, but as his pastorate is
about three miles from this part of the city, he will
not live very close to us. However, it will be
possible for you to see each other more frequently
than if they had remained at Parker. They moved
yesterday into the new parsonage, and Mrs. Strong wants
to borrow our two youngest next week to help her with
the baby while they are getting settled. Do you
want to go?”
“Oh, I can hardly wait!
Can we really stay the whole week?”
“You ungrateful little vagabond!”
he thundered in pretended anger. “You want
to leave your old grandpa for a whole week, do you?”
“Yes,” she giggled.
“A change would do us both good. Besides,
we live with you all the time, and I don’t get
a chance to see Saint Elspeth and Glen very often-but
I’d lots rather have my home with you,
though I do like to go visiting once in a while, same
as you do.”
“Teaser! Well, if grandma
thinks it wise, you and Allee may go next week to
visit your patron saints-What is the matter,
Dora? Doesn’t the plan please you?”
For grandma looked unusually grave
and thoughtful, but at his question she merely answered,
“Peace may accept if she wishes, but unless Allée’s
cold is much better by Monday, I don’t think
it best for her to go. I kept her home from school
today.”
For a moment the brown-haired child
stood silent and hesitating on one foot in the middle
of the floor. It would be hard to be separated
from this golden-haired sister for a whole week, but-it
had been such a long time since she had seen
these other precious friends; and anyway, Elspeth
needed someone to help her. Besides, Allee might
be well enough to go by Monday, or perhaps she could
come later in the week. It would be wisest to
accept the invitation at once, so with a little hop
of decision, she announced serenely, “Tell Saint
John I’ll come, and prob’ly Allee will,
too. Her colds don’t usu’ly last long,
and she’ll be all right by Monday.”