It ain't none
of a parson's business what the community does. You're hired,
ain't you, an' paid to run the church? That's the end of it. We
ain't goin' to have any mixin' of religion an' farmin' in THIS
neighbourhood."
My eyes were on the pale man of God. I felt as though a human
soul were being weighed in the balance. What would he do now?
What was he worth REALLY as a man as well as a minister?
He paused a moment with downcast eyes. I saw little Mrs. Minister
glance at him--once--wistfully. He rose from his place, drew
himself up to his full height--I shall not soon forget the look
on his face--and uttered these amazing words:
"Martha, bring the ginger-jar."
Mrs. Minister, without a word, went to a little cupboard on the
farther side of the room and took down a brown earthenware jar,
which she brought over and placed on the table, Mr. Nash
following her movements with astonished eyes. No one spoke.
The minister took the jar in his hands as he might the
communion-cup just before saying the prayer of the sacrament.
"Mr. Nash," said he in a loud voice, "I've decided to hold that
farmers' meeting."
Before Mr. Nash could reply the minister seated himself and was
pouring out the contents of the jar upon the table--a clatter of
dimes, nickels, pennies, a few quarters and half dollars, and a
very few bills.
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