THE CIRCUS AND THE MISSIONARY
"Oh, look, Allee! See the elephants and lions and giraffes and zebras on
that poster. It's the cirkis as sure as I'm alive! Do you know I've
always wanted to see the cirkis, and this is the first time I ever knew
one to stop at Parker."
"How do you know it will stop here?" asked skeptical Allee, who was just
beginning to read, and found the long words on the billboard too much
for her to master.
"'Cause it says so. Parker, the eighteenth, Allee. Just think, that's
only next Saturday! Just a week from today! Isn't it lucky it's on
Saturday? Do you s'pose we can go?"
"I 'xpect it will take money for that just like it does for everything
else," answered the blue-eyed baby with a comically philosophical air;
"and you know Gail never has any for such things as that."
"Well, this is cheaper than most things, 'cause it says 'a-dults
twenty-five cents, and children fifteen cents.' The Fair cost half a
dollar for a-dults and twenty-five cents for children. If there is a
chance to go to anything cheap, we better try hard to go, Allee, for
that doesn't happen often."
"Maybe Gail might not like to have us go even if we could get the
money."
"She does have some queer notions about places, doesn't she? At first
she didn't want us to see that moving picture show at the church, but
when Brother Strong went and took us, she thought it was all right.
We'll ask about the cirkis before we tell her that it's coming, and
maybe we can find out that way whether she would let us go."
"I don't think we would have to ask much, 'cause she thinks cirkises are
bad, and I don't b'lieve she would like to have us there."
"What makes you so sure? I never have heard her say a thing about them."
"She told Hope so the time Hope wanted to see '_Julio and Romiet_' when
they studied it in school."
"That wasn't a cirkis, that was a theatre, Allee. That's different. It
takes painted people to play out the words in the theatre, but at the
cirkis only real animals act, and do tricks that take brains to learn.
Why, this picture shows a nelephant beating a drum. Now, elephants live
in the _jumbles_ of Africa, Hope says, and they don't have drums to beat
there. Hunters go to their houses and catch them and teach them how to
drum, 'cause they have brains enough to learn. Look at that lion with
its mouth open and that woman with her head chucked clear inside. She
must like to be licked better'n I do. It makes me shiver when Towzer
sticks his big, hot tongue on my face. Ugh! S'posing the lion should
shut his mouth and bite her head off, what do you guess she'd do?"
"I guess they'd have to get another woman for the lion," answered Allee.
"I don't b'lieve those animals really do those things, do you, Peace?"
"Yes, I do. Why, that book of natural history that Hector lent us after
he got licked for stealing the melons tells about the way hunters train
them to act in cirkises. I'd like to see them awfully much myself."
"Then let's ask Gail. She _might_ have a little spare money."
"No, I don't think she would. We'll have to earn the money ourselves,
but I'm afraid she won't want us to go. That's what is bothering me. I
tell you what let's do. We'll earn the money first and buy our tickets,
and then I'm sure she will let us go. Shall we?"
"Maybe that would be the best way. But how'll we earn the money? It's
only a week from now, you said yourself, and that won't leave us much
time to do anything, 'specially as school keeps 'most all day long.
There ain't any strawberries to pick or blackberries to sell or snow to
sweep or--"
"Let's give a nentertaimnent in our barn like Hec and the boys did last
week in their carriage-shed. They charged a cent apiece, and earned
more'n a quarter, Hec told me. And I know we could give a better
entertainment than they did. You could sing and Cherry could speak.
Perhaps we could coax Hope to read to us. She does it splendidly, though
usu'ly she thinks she's too big to play with us any longer. I am pretty
sure Hec would turn summersets for us. He has been quite respectable
since that last licking the Judge gave him. Jimmy Jones would likely
play the bones for us, too, if Hec asked him to. They don't make a
pretty noise, but it's a sight to see his hands fly. Tessie is learning
the fiddle and I know she'd be glad to show off, and so would Effie, if
we could get our organ out into the barn."
"And you can whistle," put in Allee, all excitement as Peace unfolded
her brilliant plan. "You sound just like the birds, and Gail said only
the other night that you did better than lots of people who have taken
lessons. But do you s'pose she will let us have the organ? Do you s'pose
she'll even let us have the barn? It is in an awful clutter, and I don't
see where we could put the people who come."
"I was wondering about that myself, but it won't do any harm to ask.
There is Hec. We can find out from him right away if he will be one of
our show."
"Shall you tell him about the cirkis?"
"No, not a word. We'll have that as just a secret among our two selves
until we see how much money we can earn. See?"
"Yes."
"Don't you tell a soul!"
"Of course I won't!"
"Hector, wait a minute! We want to see you. Say, will you be in a
nentertainment me and Allee are getting up in our barn?"
The boy looked somewhat surprised at this request, for Peace had been
very slow in accepting his friendly advances, though he had showered her
with every possible attention ever since the day of the double tragedy
in their breakfast room, owing to certain forceful remarks made by his
irate parent. Here was an opportunity not to be disregarded, but with a
great show of indifference, he leisurely faced the two conspirators, and
lazily drawled out, "What kind of an entertainment?"
"One to make a little money," Peace answered briefly.
"What for?"
"'Cause I need it," was the very satisfactory reply.
"How much do you expect to make?"
"You said you got more'n a quarter, didn't you?"
"Yep. Twenty-eight cents."
"Then I think we ought to get more'n fifty cents, 'cause we mean to have
a _good_ program."
Hector felt as if a dash of cold water had suddenly struck his face, but
he was quite accustomed to Peace's characteristics by this time, so did
not resent her implied doubtful compliment, but asked, with somewhat
more of interest in his manner, "Who's going to be in it?"
"Tessie and Effie and Cherry and Allee--"
"And Peace is to whistle," put in the small cherub with sisterly
loyalty.
"Aw, a girls' crowd! There ain't any boys in it."
"You'll make one if you will turn summersets. And we thought you might
get Jimmie to play the bones for us, and p'r'aps Lute Dunbar might bring
over his accordian. I b'lieve Mike O'Hara would speak that Irish piece
of his that makes folks laugh so much, and maybe we could get the
minister to stand on his head. He does that elegant. Whenever I visit
there, that's the first thing I ask him for, and he nearly always does
it, too."
"Whoop-ee!" shouted Hector, turning a handspring. "I know a _boy_ that
stands on his head, and he will do it any time I ask him to. Mr. Strong
prob'ly wouldn't in front of a big crowd like you'd have in your barn.
The Sherrars are coming down from Martindale Monday to stay a whole week
with us, and Victor plays the cornet to beat the band. He's a little
bigger'n us, but he will do anything for Cecile, and I'll get her to ask
him. What'll you do for chairs at your place?"
"I don't know," Peace confessed. "Maybe Gail won't even let us have
the barn, but I think she will. We must give it this week, before
next Saturday, I mean, 'cause that's the time we have to have the
money--" She stopped abruptly, fearing that he would guess her secret,
but he showed no trace of suspicion, so with freer breath she continued,
"I'm going home now and see Gail. I think Wednesday or Thursday after
school would be the best time, don't you? Then if it should rain, we
would still have another day left before Saturday. It won't take us long
to get ready, seeing we each do our part all alone."
"Yes," agreed Hector, with unusual readiness, "I think Wednesday will be
all right, and I'll get up the tickets for you."
"Goody! You might get them ready while I go see Gail. I'll be right
back."
She and Allee disappeared up the road in a cloud of dust and Hector
repaired to his home to manufacture the bits of cardboard necessary for
admission to the wonderful entertainment. It was an hour later that
Peace appeared at the Judge's door and asked to see the young gentleman
of the house, but it required no words from her to tell him that her
errand had been fruitless.
"She won't let you give the entertainment!" he said, the instant he saw
her woe-begone face.
"She doesn't care about the entertainment at all, but she won't let us
have the barn, and here I've been and asked Effie and Tessie and Mike,
and they all promised to take part. Oh, dear! I did want that money so
bad!"
"Are you sure Gail won't care if you give the entertainment?" Hector
stood in considerable awe of the big girls at the little brown house,
and he wanted to run no risks in the daring plan his own brain had
suddenly evolved.
"No, she doesn't care a single speck. She said we could give it in the
orchard, but then anyone could come and look on without having to pay a
cent, and I can't get my money at all."
"Yes, you can. We will give the entertainment in our carriage-shed if
you'll divide the money with me, Peace. Course if I furnish the building
I've a right to _part_ of the money."
"But half is quite a lot," demanded the girl with some hesitation. "See,
I've _got_ to make at least thirty cents for Allee and me, and I wanted
fifteen cents more for Cherry."
"We could have Cecile's old organ in the shed," said Hector, ignoring
her objections for the moment; "and there is a big lantern hanging from
the roof, so we could light it if it got dark before we were through. We
had better light it anyway, I guess, and draw the curtains so no one
outside can see. Then everyone who wants to hear the program will _have_
to buy a ticket. If we get up such a swell entertainment, Peace, it is
worth more'n a cent. Let's charge two for a nickel; then if we can get
fifty people to come it will give us each quite a neat little pile out
of it. What do you say?"
"I--don't--think--many folks would buy at such a high price," said
Peace, doubtfully, though the picture he drew was very alluring.
"Why, of course they will for such a bang-up program as we'll give them.
Mamma and Cecile and Mrs. Sherrar and Frances will go; and Nancy and
Marie, the girls. That makes six right there. Of course we can't charge
Victor anything if he takes part. I bet Miss Truesdale would buy a
ticket, too. You ask her, or get Allee to. Allee is in her room now. The
minister and his family are coming over some night for dinner while the
Sherrars are here, and I'll get mamma to invite them Wednesday, and you
tell them to come early enough for the program. They'll be glad to. Mr.
Strong was here the day we boys had our time in the carriage shed, and
he clapped and stamped the loudest of anyone."
"Have you written the tickets yet?"
"No, just cut them."
"Well, that's good. We'll charge a nickel for two tickets, and give it
in your shed next Wednesday. Get to work now. I've just thought of
Montie Fry and his trick dog, and Dick Sullivan and his mouth-organ. I
am going right over and see if they will take part."
She was as good as her word, and when the following Wednesday afternoon
arrived it would have been hard to tell which was the largest, the
audience in the carriage shed, or the company of participants arranged
on the platform which Leonard had built for just such gatherings; but
every one of the fifty tickets had been sold, and late arrivals had to
present cash, at the door, where Hector presided.
The program, was certainly original and varied, if somewhat lengthy, and
the audience was kept in a thrill of expectation from one number to the
next, for Peace was a master hand at arranging her numbers, and
instinctively had saved the best for the last. Just as she herself had
taken her place in front of the motley gathering to give an exhibition
of her whistling, the big door swung noiselessly, and the company from
the great house arrived in a body,--the Judge's wife and daughter, their
guests, the Sherrars, and the minister and his small family. They looked
very much surprised to find the place crowded to its utmost capacity,
but were even more astonished when, after a preliminary bar or so on the
mouth-organ, Dick Sullivan began softly to play _The Blue-bells of
Scotland_, and Peace's red lips took up the melody, whistling with
beautiful accuracy and clearness, trilling through measure after measure
with bird-like notes, following all of Dick's variations, and adding a
few of her own under the inspiration lent by the presence of her beloved
friends.
"Cecile," exclaimed her friend Frances, "why didn't you tell me you had
such a genius in your midst? I'd have been out here the first one to
hear the whole program. Why, she looks like an angel, and her whistling
is divine. Who is she?"
"Peace Greenfield," answered Cecile, almost too amazed for speech, for
this was the first time she herself had ever heard the young whistler.
"Father calls her the dearest little nuisance in town. She is one of the
most original pieces I ever saw in my life--always into mischief, and
always trying to help someone. But truly, I had no idea she could
whistle like that. Mr. Strong, what do you think of it?"
"She is doing splendidly!" he whispered enthusiastically. "She is a
regular genius at it. Why, a year ago she came to me and begged _me_ to
teach her."
"So she is a pupil of yours?" asked Mrs. Sherrar, as much enchanted with
the musician as were her young people.
"Not exactly. I helped her what I could, but I think most of the credit
belongs to Mike O'Hara and the birds in the woods. He set her to
imitating them; and she is an apt mimic, you will find. Clap with all
your might."
The very rafters rang with the applause of the enthusiastic audience, as
the small whistler took her seat among her mates on the platform, and
she was forced to give another selection, and a third. Allee came to
her aid in the fourth, and sang to a whistled accompaniment, but the
applause was more tremendous and insistent than before; and poor, weary
Peace rose to her feet for the fifth time, but instead of pouring forth
the torrent of melody they expected, she faced the audience
belligerently, and cried in exasperation, "My pucker is tired out and my
throat aches. Do you 'xpect me to stand here all night? Victor Sherrar
will play on his cornet now and then you can go home."
"Mamma," whispered Frances, while her brother was rendering the closing
number of the program, "I simply must have those two tots at my party
next week. They will be a novelty and everyone is sure to like them.
Cecile thinks I can borrow them all right, seeing that it is to be
Saturday night."
"Well, we'll see," smiled the mother indulgently, as the crowd broke up
and departed, while Peace and Hector divided the spoils in the corner.
"She surely is an interesting specimen, and it was worth ten times the
money just to hear her squelch her audience. Where is Brother Strong?"
He was interviewing the brown-eyed girl, who, with her money in hand,
was about ready to follow her companions for home; and they clustered
around the little group by Hector's table just in time to hear Peace's
dismayed voice cry, "You're fooling! I didn't believe that of _you_.
Why, Mr. Strong, I read it myself on the poster!"
"Where? What poster?"
"That big one up on the corner back of this house. Allee and me were
picking gentians when we saw it. Didn't we, Allee?"
"But, Peace, that was last year's sign. There hasn't been a circus in
town this summer, and there isn't going to be. It is past circus time."
"Are you sure?" she faltered, opening her fist and looking tragically at
the pile of nickels and dimes she held.
"Perfectly sure! They were to have been here last year just about this
time, but it rained pitchforks, as you children say, and they didn't
stop. That poster is ragged and faded with time. If you don't believe
me, just come up to the corner and I'll show you the date."
"Oh, I b'lieve you! Ministers don't often tell lies; but I was just
thinking of this heap of money I've earned all for nothing. Eighty cents
was my share, and I thought that would take most of our family--s'posing
Gail would let us go."
The amused grown-ups smiled behind her back, but the preacher understood
how disappointed she was, and taking her hand sympathetically in his, he
drew her aside and whispered a few words in her ear which brought back
the sparkle to her eyes and the happy glow to her face, as she exclaimed
enthusiastically, "I'll do it! Sure! No, I won't tell a soul. Course
Gail will let me. All right! Good-bye!"
She was off like a shot down the road, and the pastor joined his hostess
on the way to the house, with the irrelevant remark, "Dr. David Peak, a
missionary to Africa, is to speak at our Sunday morning service. I hope
we have a large attendance, as this will be a rare treat. It isn't often
a little country church can secure so notable a speaker. Spread the good
news all you can."
Something in his voice made the Judge's wife say suggestively, "He is
not to be the only unusual attraction, is he?"
"The only one to be advertised," smiled the parson, and she understood.
The following Sabbath day was glorious, bright, warm, and with the smell
of fall in the air. The church was packed; pastor and people were at
their best; and an expectant hush fell over the little audience when Mr.
Strong took his seat after reading the weekly announcements. The organ
began to play softly, necks were craned to catch a glimpse of the
singer, and then a buzz of surprise filled the room. Peace, dressed all
in white, and looking like a rosy cherub, had mounted to the organ loft
where Faith was playing, and at the proper moment, she began to whistle
a beautiful bird melody which surprised even those who had heard her the
previous Wednesday. The whole audience sat spellbound. It seemed
incredible that Peace,--little, blundering Peace, riotous, rebellious,
happy-go-lucky Peace--had such a soul of melody bottled up within her.
It was as if the songsters from the forest were suddenly let loose, and
even her own sisters were amazed at her song.
Mr. Strong had been wise when he chose that moment for Peace's music,
for the whole congregation was in tune for the grand missionary plea
which followed, when Dr. Peak rose to address them; and so inspired, and
uplifted was the speaker himself that he preached as he never had done
before, bringing his cause so close to the people that they were
thrilled and fired with his enthusiasm.
Parker was a well-to-do little village, built originally for the express
purpose of permitting wealthy business men of the city to find peaceful
retreat from the noisy metropolis, where, week in and week out, they
spent the long days of labor. It had now somewhat outgrown this
reputation, but still numbered many rich men among its inhabitants, and
boasted of an unusually fine church for such a small place, although it
was not noted for its spiritual zeal, and particularly was it lacking in
its missionary spirit. These were difficulties which the ardent young
preacher, Mr. Strong, had sought for many long months to overcome, and
while the earnest missionary from Africa was pleading the cause of the
heathen, the pastor praying with all his might for his own
congregation.
When the wonderful sermon was finished, and Mr. Strong saw the unusual
interest in the faces before him, he determined to strike while the iron
was hot, and though that Sunday was not scheduled for a missionary
collection, he sprang to his feet and made an urgent plea for more funds
for the grand and glorious cause.
"Give from the depths of your heart," he urged. "Think of these millions
of people needing the Gospel. Brother Peak has come direct from the
field, he knows conditions better than anyone else can know them. He
tells us they need more missionaries. How are they to get them? Through
us in our civilized countries. We can't all go in person, but I don't
think there is a soul here this morning but can give something to help a
little. The ushers will now wait upon you. Who will be the first to
give, and what shall it be,--yourself, time, m--"
"My cirkis money!" cried a shrill voice from the organ loft, and there
stood Peace, fishing coin after coin from the depths of her pocket and
dropping them over the pulpit into the missionary's outstretched hand.
"I earned it so's me and Allee and Cherry could go to the cirkis--that
is, if Gail would let us--and then, come to find out, it was last
summer, and on 'count of the rain it never stopped at all. Next best to
seeing the cirkis is hearing what that man said about the little black
babies in Africa,--that's where the cirkis animals come from, too,--and
I couldn't help wondering how I'd feel s'posing I had to live there and
be black and eat such horrible things and be boiled in a kettle to take
the dirt off, and buy my wife for a junk of cloth and wear strings of
beads for clo'es. Here's my eighty cents, Dr. Missionary, to buy them a
little more Gospel, and when I'm grown up if there are still heathen
living in that country, I b'lieve I'll come down and help."
Whether it was the missionary's sermon, Mr. Strong's plea, or Peace's
postscript that did the work, perhaps no one will ever know, but when
the ushers brought their loaded baskets to the pulpit and the
extraordinary collection was counted, it was found that over one hundred
dollars had been raised for the missionary cause that morning in the
Parker Church.