A HEATHEN STOCKING
PEGGY had been to a missionary meeting in the village schoolroom. It
had been held there expressly for children, and a missionary from India
had spoken very earnestly to them.
"Do you all know about Jesus?" he had asked.
Then reading assent in their faces, he went on, "Happy children, to
know you have a Saviour and Friend with you every day! There are
hundreds of thousands living and dying without this knowledge. Would
you not like to help to tell them about it? There are none too small to
be missionaries, and I hope some of you are missionaries at home.
"Remember the little captive maid who told her master of the One who
could cure him. There are many at home who want to be cured by the
Great Physician. Tell others about Jesus. If you don't begin doing this
at home in England, you will never be able to do it abroad amongst the
heathen. We want you to tell about Jesus; we want you to pray to Him
for the poor heathen, and we want you to give of your money to help to
send missionaries out to teach them. Prayers, purses, and preaching
bring heathen to Jesus. Do not forget these three P's."
Peggy walked home full of thought.
When Helen asked her if she had enjoyed it she said "Yes 'm." Then,
after a pause, she said irrelevantly, "I suppose 'm you'll never have a
ill gentleman to live with you?"
"Why, no, Peggy."
"I did used to think I wouldn't get a place without a ill gentleman,
but I couldn't find one, and then you come along, and so I came."
Helen looked puzzled.
"Why did you want a place with an invalid gentleman?"
"So as to be like the little servant in the Bible," was Peggy's prompt
reply. "I somehow thinks I could 'elp him like the other girl did."
"But, Peggy, you need not wait for that opportunity," said Helen
gently. "There are always people to be helped, even in our
village—people who want to be told that Jesus will cure their souls if
not their bodies."
"Do people have sick souls?" asked Peggy earnestly.
"Yes, indeed they do. The soul that hasn't Jesus living in it is always
sick—sick unto death."
Peggy pondered over this.
"I'm a-goin' to think over those there three P's," she said presently.
"And, please 'm, I've done one already."
"Which is that, Peggy?"
"Prayers 'm."
"I'm glad to hear you have prayed about it. You mustn't forget to pray
every day, Peggy."
"But, please 'm, the gentleman told us of them idols that the heathen
made. He said them were deaf, but God weren't."
"Yes?"
"So, please 'm, I ain't goin' to arsk God more 'n once. I kneeled down
when I comed 'ome, and I arsked Him to save the heathen, every one. And
He ain't deaf, so I ain't goin' to arsk Him again."
Helen looked at Peggy, but said nothing. And Joyce at this moment
coming into the room, prevented further conversation.
Two days after this, an old pedlar came to the door. Peggy went to
interview him.
"We don't want nothink, thank yer," she said, eyeing his wares with
some curiosity.
"Now don't 'ee say so, my dear, with your pretty young face a-longin'
for a bright bow of ribbon in your cap. Look at this piece o' blue,
three yards for sevenpence. Why, 'tis givin' it away. Ah, I see you're
a sensible girl; you don't care for finery. Now I dessay I have a book
or two that may take your fancy; or a pictur' now. Look at this one. A
religious one this is, very sootable for a bedroom."
"'Tis Christ knockin' at the door," said Peggy, with a pleased nod.
"'Well, I s'pose it is; only one shillin' and sixpence. Why, He be
worth more nor that, hain't He?"
Peggy frowned at his chuckle that followed.
"'Tis Jesus Christ you be speakin' of. And that's our soul He's
a-knockin' at."
"'Tisn't mine," said the old man; "I don't deal in such harticles. I
hain't got no soul—don't believe in 'em."
Peggy stood gazing at him with horror.
"You was born with one," she said; "what have you been and done with
it?"
He rubbed his head and looked at her with a curious sort of smile.
"What have you done wi' yours?" he demanded.
Peggy's voice hushed.
"I giv' it to the Lord Jesus. Teacher taught me how at Sunday School."
There was a little silence, then Peggy saw her opportunity and seized
it.
"My missus told me there were some souls 'sick unto death.' Maybe yours
is—nearly dead, but not quite."
"Wery likely," was the amused retort.
"Wouldn't you like it made alive agen?"
Such a flash of light lit up Peggy's plain little face as she asked
this question that an answering gleam played across the old pedlar's.
"How's it to be done?" he asked.
Peggy pointed to the picture.
"Ask Him to come into it. If He lives in it, He'll make it alive agen;
missus said so."
"Oh, ay," said the old man; but a long-drawn sigh escaped him. "Well,
good-day, missy, as ye won't buy nothin'."
But Peggy seized hold of him by the lappet of his coat and detained him.
"But look 'ere, you just do it! I'm a-tellin' you of a cure for your
soul. Don't you go away without a-listenin'. I'm a-tryin' to be a
missionary at 'ome, I am, and you've a splendid one to talk to, almost
as good as a 'eathen. You listen! I ain't goin' to let yer go. Do you
mind the girl in the Bible who sent her master, the leper capting, to
be cured? I'm a-goin' to send you, and you'll 'ave to go. 'Course you
will. Who'd stay with a sick, dead soul, if they could get it made
alive agen? You go, do yer hear me?"
"Oh ay, bless the girl, what a tongue she has! Make a fine preacher one
o' those days."
A bell rang, and Peggy know she must answer it.
"Goodbye," she said, with disappointment in her tone. "But I say,
mister, if you go and get your soul cured, you come back and tell me."
"Ay, that I will."
The pedlar departed shaking his head; and so ended Peggy's first
sermon. She was very silent all that day thinking about it.
Shortly after this she was called into the little dining room by
Helen, to receive her first wages. It was an eventful day in her life.
She looked at the money as it was placed in her hand. It was half a
sovereign. Never had she handled a gold coin before. Her aunt's money
had been left to her in silver.
"I am very pleased with you, Peggy," said Helen to her, "but of course
you have still a great deal to learn. You are too noisy, too fond of
talking, and break too many things. All this you must try to get the
better of. I know you try to do your duty faithfully and well; ask God
to help you to cure these faults."
"Yes 'm," said Peggy, who was certainly learning humility. Then, with
a little burst of enthusiasm, she added, "Please 'm, I've never had so
much money of my own afore. May spend it just as I have a mind?"
"I think you had better lay half by, for you will be wanting some new
boots soon. You will have to be careful over it."
A shade of disappointment came over Peggy's face. She took her
treasured coin upstairs.
"Now, Peg, don't you be a silly," was her advice to herself. "You does
as your missus tells you. 'Tis the country that wears the boots so."
She turned the half-sovereign over in her hand.
"Five shillin's for boots, and five to make the other P. I'll ask
missus to give it to me in silver to-morrow. But, oh my! How grand I am
to be havin' gold of my own!"
The next day she got her coin changed, but a pang went through her as
she did so. It seemed as if she had only received it, to lose it at
once. However, when she found an old stocking, and put five shillings
carefully into it, her happy smile shone out again. Laboriously she
wrote out on a piece of paper which she dropped inside with the money,
"Margaret Perkins—Her heathen stocking." And then tying the stocking
into a tight knot, she deposited it at the bottom of her box under her
bed.
"There, Peggy," she said, with a long-drawn sigh of relief, "now you've
made a beginnin', mind you keep right on, and keep it secret from
everybody. And then one day you'll walk up to the clergyman and you'll
roll a stockin' of gold out at his foot for them there savage heathens.
Oh my! 'Twill be grand!"
One afternoon Joyce came into the kitchen where Peggy was cleaning her
hearth.
"Peggy, we want you to take a message for us. A walk will do you good.
It is a lovely day. It is to Mallow Farm; you have to go through fields
the whole way, but you can't make a mistake, as there is a beaten
footpath. Take your time about it, and give this note to Mrs. Webster
there. Bring us back an answer. We want her husband to supply us with
some wood for our fires."
Peggy departed with alacrity; Albert Edward accompanied her as a matter
of course. She was directed where to go, and lifted up her little heart
in gladness when she got out into the sweet spring air and sunshine.
"Oh!" she said, sniffing vigorously, "I feel as if I could h'eat the
air to-day. I'm quite hungry for it!"
The first field was crossed in peace. The second was full of young
bullocks. Peggy's heart came up in her mouth. She had not yet conquered
her fear of all cattle. She peeped cautiously over the stile, and
waited till some of the nearest ones moved away. Then, gathering
courage, she addressed Albert Edward.
"Look here, you've got to keep quiet. If you go barkin', they'll run at
us, I knows they will. You foller me."
Albert Edward wagged his tail in response, but instantly obeyed, only
out of the corner of his eyes he watched the cattle. Presently two of
them turned and steadfastly gazed at Peggy.
"Oh my! They're a-comin'! I'm a-goin to scream!"
She took to her heels, and Albert Edward, considering he was released
from his bond, dashed with a vigorous bark at the nearest bullock.
In a minute they were all in a commotion, and how Peggy ever got across
that field without being tossed or trampled upon, she never knew.
But she stood with beating heart when she had got through the gate, and
looked up into the sky.
"Oh God, I arsk you to take care of me. I'm dreadful frightened of
these here bulls. For Christ's sake. Amen."
Then she looked around her. What dangers awaited her in this field, she
wondered!
A light came into her eyes as she looked, and then wonder and
admiration hold her spellbound.
The field was full of sheep and tiny lambs. Peggy had never seen lambs
at play before. She stood and gazed in delight, and Albert Edward
looked alternately at the lambs and her with wistful eyes. If only he
could be allowed to chase them! But his conscience told him he could
not.
"I never, never see'd such darlin's! Oh, Peggy, you've come to a place
at last that is worth gettin' through those bulls to see! Oh, the
pretty little dears! Why, 'tis like bein' in a picture-book to be with
'em!"
A lark rose up singing before her. There seemed no end to the joys
of this afternoon. Long she lingered in that sunny meadow; but the
next field held a new joy, and only one or two horses at the farther
end were the disturbing elements. In a sunny hedge were clusters of
primroses. With a shriek of delight Peggy made a rush at them, and
when she gathered the first handful and inhaled their sweet scent, she
hugged and kissed them in ecstasy.
"I've never see'd 'em a-growin' wild. Oh! If only Mrs. Creak and Mrs.
Jones and h'Arthur were here! Now this is somethin' like bein' in the
country!"
She picked a large bunch, then renewed her way. Albert Edward had
turned up his nose at the primroses, but he was delighted to poke it
into the hedge, where he sniffed for rabbits, if not for the flowers
that grew there.
Peggy came to one more halt before she reached Mallow Farm, and this
was at a tiny cottage at the corner of a field. As she was passing by,
she heard some one calling. Curiosity made her put her head inside the
door, and there sat an old man cowering over a few lighted logs on a
wide open hearth.
"Do you want anybody, mister?"
The old man turned and looked at her.
"'Tis Bill I wants," he said peevishly. "Bill who works to the farm. He
said he'd be here to cook my taties, and 'tis gone four. I didn't have
none for dinner and wants some wi' my tea, and I've a-been and upset
the pot a-tryin' to put him on the fire, and the taties are burnt up.
Oh, dearie me! I'm a poor lone man who can't do nothink for himself!"
Peggy's quick eyes saw the overturned pot. She went forward and picked
it up.
"I'll peel a few taties in a minute and pop 'em on for you," she said
cheerfully. "You sit still, mister. I see the taties. They're on the
dresser there. Oh my! What a muck your things are in! Who cleans your
room for you?"
The old man began to cry.
"'Twas my poor Janie did it last. She only died six months ago. And
no neighbours be near—only the farm. Bill—he does what he can, but
he be a bit clumsy with his fingers; and I be terrible crippled with
rheumaticks. Thank 'ee kindly, my dear. You be new to these parts, I
reckon."
"I live with my missuses at Ivy Cottage," said Peggy, as she deftly
peeled the potatoes and dropped them in the pot. "I comes from London,
I does; but, oh my! What a sight the country be this arternoon!"
"What be the matter with it?"
"The matter! Why, the sun be shinin' and lambs be playin' and primroses
a-growin'. Look at my bunch! Did you ever see sich flowers? They hangs
'em round a black figure in London—on his birthday, I believe. That's
how I knows 'em. Beckyfield his name be. Funny his name bein' a kind o'
field; I never thought on that afore. Must have somethin' to do with
the primroses.
"Oh my! You oughter walk out, mister; 'twould cheer you up. There's
a kind of happy, wake-up feel outdoors to-day. And the birds are
a-singin' and a-flyin' up miles above yer head. There now, mister; tell
me where to get a drop o' water and I'll put the pot on for yer."
"'Tis to the pump outside."
Peggy found the pump and placed the pot on the fire.
"I'll ask my missus to let me come and see you one day," she said, with
a confidential little nod. "There's a good bit o' news and talk I could
give you about London."
"Ah, do 'ee come in agen, me dear. I be a poor lone old man, and no one
comes nigh me."
"All right, I'll turn up. Good arternoon!" She turned to the door and
almost ran into the arms of a tall young man.
Shyness was not one of Peggy's characteristics.
"I s'pose as how you're Bill," she said, with a queer look up at him.
"I've bin doin' what you oughter! Yer poor old father wants some one
to look arter him. Why don't yer keep the place clean? 'Tis as bad as
London for dirt and mess. You jest giv' it a good lick up afore I comes
this way agen!"
She marched off, Albert Edward at her heels, and Bill Somers stared
after her in stupid amazement.