The same sweet weather continued again the next day; the air was even
warmer still, the leaves of oaks and maples, turning more and more, were
growing browner and ruddier, and the glow on the hills more deep. The
pine wood, however, which lay behind, that is, north of the house, at no
great distance, was uninvaded by this autumn glow. The soft, blue gleam
of the pines alone stood against the heaven's mild blue overhead, and
pine needles, brown and thick, carpeted the ground everywhere between
the rocks. For rocks were almost everywhere at Mosswood. Only on the
skirts of the wood one might see a flaming maple branch, or a golden
cloud of hickory here and there, and here and there a cat-briar vine
taking a tawny hue, or some low-growing cornus putting on lovely tints
of madder at the edges of its leaves. Through the wood the little party
wandered, not knowing where to choose to stop, and Meredith patiently
drew the cart along waiting for orders. At last, on a little rising
ground they found an open space, yet shadowed enough, from which there
was a lookout to the house in the valley; truly no more than the
chimneys could be seen; and a wider space of blue sky, and the hills
towards the south. This would do. Here were pine needles enough for a
carpet, and a felled pine log gave a convenient seat to those who liked
it. For Meredith and Maggie preferred the ground and the pine needles.
The cart was drawn up under the shade of a tree; afghan and worsted
embroidery were taken out; shawls were spread; and the party settled
themselves for a morning of comfort.
"This _is_ good!" said Meredith delaying to open his book.
"How perfectly delicious this warm smell of the pines is!" said Flora.
"You use strong language, Flo, but for once not exaggerated. We have not
got the sound of the wood-chopper's axe to-day."
"I'll tell you what you may hear, though, if you listen," said
Esther,--"the woodpecker--
'The woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree;'
only there are no beech-trees on the place. You may hear him on an oak,
though."
"This hazy light under the pines--through the pines--is bewitching. O
October! O Mosswood!" Meredith exclaimed. "What is so pretty as these
autumn woods?"
"What are you going to read us to-day?" said his sister. "Don't get
poetical."
"I will read you one or two little bits first, which touch something
Maggie and I were talking of yesterday. We do not want a bonfire to-day;
it's too warm."
"No; we will make just a tiny little blaze by and by, to boil our
kettle. It would be too warm for a bonfire; and there are no trees here
to be cut."
"I should think not!" said Meredith looking up at the blue-green pine
needles over his head. "Well, here's a story for you."
"Heathen?" asked Flora.
"No, Christian. 'There was a man, once upon a time, whom God had richly
blessed. He had received a year's income of seven hundred thalers. Four
hundred of them he needed and used for his house and family wants, and
three hundred were left over. So he thought at first he would put the
money out at interest, and enjoy the comfort of receiving rents which
were growing while he was sleeping. As he was just setting about this,
he read in a mission paper about the wants of the heathen; and the
Sunday next following he heard a preaching about how the dear Lord is
the safest of all to trust money to, and gives the best interest. So he
made a short piece of work of it, and sent his three hundred thalers to
the dear Lord for the conversion of the heathen, and said, "Lord, take
Thou them; I got them from Thee, and there is all this left." "Wife,"
said he, when he came home at evening, "I have done a good bit of
business to-day; I have got rid of my three hundred thalers, and am quit
of any care of the money, over and above." "Then you may thank the dear
Lord for that," said his wife. "And so I do," he answered.
"'Do I not hear at this point, not merely many a child of the world, but
also many a believer, secretly half saying, "No, but what is out of
reason is out of reason!"--and so do I see a certain compassionate smile
playing about mouth-corners. But wait a bit; there is something coming
that is more crazy yet. The next year the man was overloaded with such a
blessing, that instead of seven hundred thalers, he made fourteen
hundred thalers, and he did not know where it all came from. Then what
does he do but take the surplus, one thousand thalers, and send it to
the mission. Is the story true? do you say. You can ask the Lord "in
that day;" he knows the story.'"
"I like that," said Maggie.
"Why?" Flora asked.
"I think it is nice," said Maggie with a shrug of her shoulders.
"I don't see it. What good to the man to have twice as much as he had
before, if he must give it all right away again?"
"Why, he has the pleasure of giving it!" cried Maggie.
"And it shows, at any rate, that he did not get poor by his first
venture," said Meredith. "And the Lord will reckon it 'at that day' as
all done for Him."
"I don't think people are obliged to give away all they have got," said
Flora.
"Suppose they do not reckon anything they have their own? The Christians
in the early times did not, if the Lord's work or the needs of others
wanted it more."
"Extravagance!" said Flora. "Just enthusiasm."
"Come, I will read you another story. But the poor woman who gave all
she had into the Lord's treasury was not rated as a fool by _Him_. I
will read you now--
"'A PROBLEM ABOUT STUTEN MONEY.
"'Most of you know, it is true, right well what _stuten_ money is, but
certainly all do not. Among us, when people go to church on Sunday, the
children and younger serving people of the peasants get a groschen to
take along, with which they can buy a stuten, that is, a white roll, at
noon when they come out of church; by the help of which they can stay in
the village and so go to church again in the afternoon. Now there are a
boy, a girl, and an old woman known to me, who have no other money but
the stuten money they get on Sundays. So each one of them falls to
considering how he or she can do something for the heathen. And they
arrange it on this wise. One of them every other Sunday eats no roll,
and thinks within herself, "I ate as much as I wanted this morning at
home, and I can do the same again this evening." The two others buy each
a small roll for half a groschen, and lay up the other half-groschen
every Sunday; and when the year comes round, they have all three of
them, counting the festivals, thirty groschen saved up, and bring them
with glad, smiling faces to go for the conversion of the heathen. And
upon being afterwards asked whether hunger did not often trouble them on
Sunday? they say, they have always felt as if they had had enough; and,
with God's help, they will do the same way next year.'"
"What sort of a story do you call that?" asked Flora when her brother
paused.
"I call it a story of what can be done."
"And _I_ call it a story of what ought not to be done. Both the children
and the old woman needed their bread for themselves; it was not good for
them to go without it. And what is a groschen? or thirty groschen?"
"What are 'two mites, which make a farthing?'"
"Oh, that is in the Bible."
"But it was in a poor woman's heart first, or we should never have had
it in the Bible."
"Well, look at our luncheon," said Flora.
"I will look at it when I see it. What then?"
"Do you mean that we shall do wrong to eat it?"
"Not at all."
"How can those people be right and we not wrong?"
"Yes, Ditto," said Maggie. "I do not understand."
"Those people must give their groschen or give nothing. It was all they
could give."
"But we might give more than we do, if we would live on bread and
water," said Flora. "If we are to give all we _could_ give, our luncheon
would come to a good many groschen, I can tell you."
"We must ask Mr. Murray. I am not wise enough to talk to you," said
Meredith. "I hope he will come; we are getting work ready for him.
Meantime I will read you another little story. Maybe we shall find some
light.
"'AS POOR, YET MAKING MANY RICH.
"'There was a poor day-labourer who lived by his work from hand to
mouth. He heard it read out of the Old Testament, that under the old
covenant every Israelite was bound to give to God the tenth of all his
incomings. That went through and through the man's head, and he thought:
Could the Israelites do that by the law, and should not we Christians be
able to do it by the love of Christ? So, honestly and faithfully, he
lays by the tenth of his daily wages; the Lord blesses him, so that many
a time he earns sixteen groschen a day; and at the end of the year he
comes with his hands full, bringing sixteen thaler twenty groschen for
the conversion of the heathen, and with hearty pleasure; and he says,
"The love of Christ constraineth me so, I have wanted for nothing."'"
"Not much of a story," said Meredith, in concluding, "but a good deal of
a suggestion."
"Suggestion of what?" asked his sister.
"Duty. Certainly a Christian ought to be able to do more for love than
an old Hebrew did for law; and from this time I will imitate that old
German fellow."
"But, Ditto," exclaimed his sister, "a tenth of _your_ income, you must
remember, is a great deal."
"Not in proportion," said Meredith. "He would want every one of his
remaining groschen for his necessities; I should not. It seems to me,
the richer one is, the larger the proportion should be that should go to
the Lord's uses."
"I shall ask Mr. Murray to make you reasonable!" Flora exclaimed. "Stop
talking, and go on with your reading."
"The next story is about 'One Groschen and Two Pennies.'"
"'It is true what the Bible says--"The Lord maketh sore, and bindeth up;
He woundeth, and His hands make whole." My heart learnt the meaning of
this word when a short time ago I had to expel two pupils from the
Mission-house, who had been led astray by Satan. This gave me great
pain, but it had to be done, for their sakes and for the sake of the
house; and it was somewhat alleviated in that they came back sorry and
penitent and were taken in again.
"'To the honour of the Lord I will here speak good of the balm which
shortly after my great hurt He laid upon the wounds. May it have
somewhat of the sweetness of that ointment which filled the whole house.
"'Soon after the departure of the pupils was made known, I had a visit
from an eight-year-old boy. He had a groschen in his hand and a
reading-book under his arm. He told me that he had found this groschen
fourteen days before on the way to church; that he had asked his father
to publish the discovery, and he himself had announced it in school. But
nobody had been found to own the groschen. I said to him: "Well, what do
you think, my child? does the groschen belong to you? will you buy
something with it?" The boy answered, "No, the groschen is not mine, so
I am not going to keep it. I will give it to the dear Saviour for the
poor heathen children, to get a spelling-book for them." When I
questioned him further, he said that once in the church, where his
father takes him every Sunday, I had said "whoever keeps what does not
belong to him is a thief; and"--he added with great seriousness, "you
said, a Christian child must not be a thief!" I received the groschen
now and thanked him. But the boy had not done yet. He asked me if it
were true that two of the pupils had been expelled from the
Mission-house. When with a sorrowful face I assented, he answered, "You
need not be so troubled about it. You can send me instead. I can spell
already, and I will soon learn to read." When the little fellow with
great earnestness had said that, I could not help folding him to my
breast in heartfelt gladness. Then I knelt down, and together with him
prayed that the Lord would some time make a true missionary of him. He
went away at last, but could not at first rightly understand how it was
that I had as yet no use for him.
"'Soon after this, I receive a letter from a dear friend who had been
making a lively stir in the matter of the Mission among his school and
the parish to which his school belonged. The Lord had granted him access
to the hearts of great and small, and with cordial pleasure he had been
collecting till he should have a full thaler made up, which then should
be sent me. Now he wrote the thaler was made up, and he sent it, and
this was how it had come about. In a hospital, where he is accustomed to
hold devotional service for an hour, he had mentioned the conversion of
the heathen. The next day came a widow, shoved four groschen under one
of the books which lay on the table, and then, with a greeting from her
children, laid two groschen on the table, saying, "Now the thaler will
be made up!" To this Mission thaler, which indeed was made up now, a
little girl of nine years old had every Sunday contributed two pennies,
which she received from her mother to buy rolls with. Some time after,
the mother brought the child's two pennies again, silently; but it
struck our friend that she had great tears in her eyes. The thing was
soon explained. The child had fallen ill. Sunday her mother said to her,
"To-day you shall keep your roll for yourself." "No," the child
answered, "I could not be easy if I did. I promised my dear Saviour
once, that as long as you gave me two pennies to buy rolls with, I would
give the money on Sunday for the heathen." How glad that true mother's
heart must have been! She had reason to say, "But what a value these two
pennies had for me! I could not let them out of my hands at first, for
joy." God bless mother, child, and teacher! The Mission must indeed
thrive when such gifts are offered. From another dear friend of
missions, personally unknown to me, moreover, I received a contribution
for the Mission, in the making up of which both men and beasts had given
their help. The contributors were specially mentioned, the men at their
head; then at the conclusion followed, "A hen, so much and so much."'"
"Well, Ditto," said Flora, "I will say, you do read the most
extraordinary stories."
"Like them?"
"No, I don't think I do much. Do you bring them forward as our examples,
hen and all?"
"You might do worse."
"But, Ditto," Maggie said anxiously, "you do not think we ought to go
without what we _want_, do you, for the sake of the heathen?"
"Ask Mr. Murray that question, Maggie. Whose hat is that I see over the
wall, coming up to the gate?"
Maggie jumped up to look, and then, with a scream of "Uncle Eden! Uncle
Eden!" sprang away down the path to meet him. The others dropped book
and work and followed her. The pine wood was screened off from the
shrubbery and pleasure grounds (but indeed all Mosswood pretty much was
pleasure grounds) by a low stone wall, in which wall a little gate
admitted to the entrance of the wood. By the time Mr. Murray, skirting
the wall, had come to that point, the group of young people had reached
it also, and there Mr. Murray received a welcome that might have
satisfied any man. Maggie threw herself on his neck with cries of
delight; Flora's bright, handsome face sparkled with undisguised
pleasure; even Esther looked glad, and Meredith's wringing grasp of the
hand was as expressive as anything else. Surrounded by them, almost
hemmed in his steps, questioned and answered and welcomed, all in a
breath, by the gay little group, Mr. Murray slowly made his progress
along the pine walk towards the present camping place. He had got the
round-robin, yes, and he had obeyed their summons as soon as he could
after clearing away a few impediments of business; he had made an early
start, and come all the way that morning from Bay House, and he was very
glad to be with them. Now what were they going to do with him?
Saying which last, Mr. Murray stretched himself on the soft carpet of
pine needles and surveyed the tokens of work and play around the spot.
"From Bay House this morning! And no lunch yet? That's good!" cried
Maggie. "Now, dear Ditto, the first thing is to give him something to
eat. He must be ravenous. If you'll build a fireplace, I'll make the
fire, and then we can have the kettle boiled in a very little time."
Mr. Murray lay on his elbow on the pine needles and watched them as
Meredith built a few stones together to support the tea-kettle, and then
he and Maggie ran about collecting bits of pine and pine cones and fuel
generally. And then there was the careful laying of dry tinder together,
and the match applied, and the blue, hospitable smoke began to curl up
under and round the kettle, and an aromatic, odoriferous smell came
floating in the air.
"This is better than anything I have seen for some time, children," he
said.
"Ah, wait!" cried Maggie. "We have got stewed pigeons for lunch."
Mr. Murray laughed. "What are you all doing out here, _besides_ eating
pigeons?"
"We have set out with the determination to live out of doors," said
Flora; "and so we do it. This is the third day, and it is absolutely
delightful."
"What are you doing?"
"I see you looking at our worsteds--aren't they pretty colours, Mr.
Murray? Esther and I play with these, while Ditto reads to us. And we
have laid up a great deal of work for you."
"In what shape, pray?"
"Questions. Somehow, as we read, we get up difficult questions, that
nobody can answer, and that we are not all agreed upon; and then by
general consent we refer them to you."
Mr. Murray watched the tiny tongues of flame which were darting up round
the tea-kettle, where Maggie sat supplying small sticks and resinous
pine cones to feed the fire. The scene was as pretty as possible;
Meredith roaming hither and thither collecting more fuel, and the shawls
and even the worsted lying about, with the gay, young figures, touching
up the gipsy view with bits of colour. He watched in silence.
"Mosswood is the most delicious place we have ever seen," Flora went on.
"Almost any place is good in October. How pleasant this veiled light is!
What are you about, Maggie?"
"This is the pot of pigeons, Uncle Eden; we are going to get them hot.
The kettle boils; now would you like some coffee, Uncle Eden?"
But Mr. Murray declared himself satisfied with tea. And in a little
while the scene became more gipsy than ever; except that gipsys are not
supposed to indulge in much refinement of china cups and silver spoons.
Everybody was picking pigeon bones, however; and bread and butter, and
cups of tea, and baked potatoes (which came out hot from the house,
brought in a basket by Fairbairn), and peaches and pears to conclude
with, were discussed with great enjoyment and amidst a great deal of
talk. Fenton arrived from the fishing to take his share; but I do not
think he was as glad to see his uncle as the others had been; and as
soon as lunch was over he took himself away again. Then cups and plates
and _debris_ were packed away into the cart; the little fire had burned
itself out; fingers were washed in Eastern fashion, somebody pouring
water over the others' hands; and at last worsted needles and knitting
needles came into play again, and the circle was made up around Mr.
Murray, who declared himself to be quite refreshed and rested.
"Ready for questions, Uncle Eden?"
"Are the questions very deep?"
"Oh, yes, Uncle Eden; none of us can answer them."
"They had need be profound! How did they come up?"
"From Meredith's book. Ditto was reading to us some delicious stories
about the old Saxons, and their ways and their gods; and we have ever so
many questions to ask you, Uncle Eden."
"Have you any more of those Saxon stories on hand, Meredith?"
"Plenty, sir."
"Then I wish you would go on and read another; and so I should perhaps
get into the atmosphere of your questions. Besides, I feel like being
luxurious and lazy in this warm, spicy air. Suppose we have a story now,
and the questions by and by?"
They were all agreed to that. Maggie settled herself to listen
comfortably, and Mr. Murray lay on his elbow and looked thoughtfully
into the reader's face, or into the blue-green pine wilderness around,
or above to the quiet, clear blue which stretched over all; but if Mr.
Murray's body was resting, I am inclined to think his mind was busy
enough.