Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ
- Author: Eleanor H. Porter
Book online «Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ». Author Eleanor H. Porter
âââWoe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widowsâ houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation.â
âââWoe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.âââ
It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the woods, the ministerâs deep voice rang out with scathing effect. Even the birds and squirrels seemed hushed into awed silence. It brought to the minister a vivid realization of how those words would sound the next Sunday when he should utter them before his people in the sacred hush of the church.
His people!â âthey were his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it? Dare he not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without the words that would followâ âhis own words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleaded earnestly for help, for guidance. He longedâ âoh, how earnestly he longed!â âto take now, in this crisis, the right step. But was thisâ âthe right step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into his pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself down at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house, found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
âOh, oh, Mr. Ford! Youâ âyou havenât broken your leg orâ âor anything, have you?â she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried to smile.
âNo, dearâ âno, indeed! Iâm justâ âresting.â
âOh,â sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. âThatâs all right, then. You see, Mr. Pendleton had broken his leg when I found himâ âbut he was lying down, though. And you are sitting up.â
âYes, I am sitting up; and I havenât broken anythingâ âthat doctors can mend.â
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them. A swift change crossed her face. Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.
âI know what you meanâ âsomething plagues you. Father used to feel like that, lots of times. I reckon ministers doâ âmost generally. You see thereâs such a lot depends on âem, somehow.â
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.
âWas your father a minister, Pollyanna?â
âYes, sir. Didnât you know? I supposed everybody knew that. He married Aunt Pollyâs sister, and she was my mother.â
âOh, I understand. But, you see, I havenât been here many years, so I donât know all the family histories.â
âYes, sirâ âI mean, no, sir,â smiled Pollyanna.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the foot of the tree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyannaâs presence. He had pulled some papers from his pocket and unfolded them; but he was not looking at them. He was gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distance awayâ âand it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and dead. Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
âItâ âitâs a nice day,â she began hopefully.
For a moment there was no answer; then the minister looked up with a start.
âWhat? Oh!â âyes, it is a very nice day.â
âAnd âtisnât cold at all, either, even if âtis October,â observed Pollyanna, still more hopefully. âMr. Pendleton had a fire, but he said he didnât need it. It was just to look at. I like to look at fires, donât you?â
There was no reply this time, though Pollyanna waited patiently, before she tried againâ âby a new route.
âDo You like being a minister?â
The Rev. Paul Ford looked up now, very quickly.
âDo I likeâ âWhy, what an odd question! Why do you ask that, my dear?â
âNothingâ âonly the way you looked. It made me think of my father. He used to look like thatâ âsometimes.â
âDid he?â The ministerâs voice was polite, but his eyes had gone back to the dried leaf on the ground.
âYes, and I used to ask him just as I did you if he was glad he was a minister.â
The man under the tree smiled a little sadly.
âWellâ âwhat did he say?â
âOh, he always said he was, of course, but âmost always he said, too, that he wouldnât stay a minister a minute if âtwasnât for the rejoicing texts.â
âTheâ âwhat?â The Rev. Paul Fordâs eyes left the leaf and gazed wonderingly into Pollyannaâs merry little face.
âWell, thatâs what father used to call âem,â she laughed. âOf course the Bible didnât name âem that. But itâs all those that begin âBe glad in the Lord,â or âRejoice greatly,â or âShout for joy,â and all that, you knowâ âsuch a lot of âem. Once, when father felt specially bad, he counted âem. There were eight hundred of âem.â
âEight hundred!â
âYesâ âthat told you to rejoice and be glad, you know; thatâs why father named âem the ârejoicing texts.âââ
âOh!â There was an odd look on the ministerâs face. His eyes had fallen to the words on the top paper in his handsâ ââBut woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!â âAnd so your fatherâ âliked those ârejoicing texts,âââ he murmured.
âOh, yes,â nodded Pollyanna, emphatically. âHe said he felt better right away, that first day he thought to count âem. He said if God took the trouble to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to do itâ âsome. And father felt ashamed that he hadnât done it more. After that, they got to be such a comfort to him, you know, when things went wrong; when the Ladiesâ Aiders got to fightâ âI mean, when they didnât agree about something,â corrected Pollyanna, hastily. âWhy, it was those texts, too, father said, that made him think of the gameâ âhe began with me on the crutchesâ âbut he said âtwas the rejoicing texts that started him on it.â
âAnd what game might that be?â asked the minister.
âAbout finding something in everything to be glad about, you
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