A Missionary Twig Part 3

In the evening her father came in for his share of the requests.

"Papa," she asked, "would you just as soon give me my ten cents this evening as Monday?"

"Certainly," he replied, taking a dime out of his pocket. "What's going on this evening?"

"Oh, nothing's going on, but I've begun to have a box for missionary money--that lovely cardinal one of mamma's with gilt spots on it--and I'm going to put tenths and offerings in it and take them to the mission-band to help send missionaries to the heathen."

"Well, that's good. But what are you going to do about candy and such things?"

"Oh, I don't put all my money in the box; just some of it. I'm going to learn to give--what was it I told you mamma?"

"Systematically?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's it. You know, papa, that means giving just so much of your money and giving it at a certain time and never forgetting to give it. That's the reason I wanted my ten cents now, so that I can put some of it in the box to-morrow morning. And, O papa! would it trouble you to give it to me all in pennies?"

"Not at all," said her father gravely, and he counted out ten pennies, taking back the dime. "Now how much of that goes in the cardinal box?"

"One penny for tenths and two as a thank-offering, because I'm thankful that I've got started. So to-morrow morning three pennies will rattle into the box."

"Why to-morrow?"

"Because it's the first day of the week. That's the New Testament plan, 'lay by in store on the first day of the week.'"

Then she climbed on her father's knee and told him all her day's experience. He approved of her plans and said he hoped she would be able to carry them out.

"I think," he said, "it is a very good thing for small folks to learn to spend their money wisely, and a better thing to learn to be willing to share the good they have with those not so well off. But you will have to watch yourself very carefully, for it wont be so easy to do all this when the novelty wears off as it is now."

"Oh! I'm always going to do this way," said Marty very determinedly, "all my life."

She always entered with heart and soul into whatever interested her, and all that week she could hardly think of anything but the mission-band and the money she was saving for it. By Wednesday she had dropped two more pennies into the box--a free-will-offering she told her mother--and did not spend a cent for anything, though one of her dolls was really suffering for a pink sash.

She was a great deal of the time with Edith, who gave her the most glowing accounts of what they did at the band--how they had recitations and dialogues and items, how they made ap.r.o.ns and kettle-holders and sold them, and how Miss Agnes read most interesting missionary stories to them while they sewed. She also told of a beautiful letter the secretary, Mary Cresswell, had written to the lady missionary in the school in Lah.o.r.e, India, which the Twigs supported, and how they were anxiously looking for a reply. Miss Agnes said they must not expect a reply very soon, for missionaries were very busy people and had not much time for letter-writing. But the girls thought that Mrs. C----, the missionary, would be so pleased with Mary's letter she would certainly make time to write, at least a tiny answer.

"Does the band support a whole school?" Marty inquired in surprise. "It must take a lot of money."

"What we do is to pay the teacher's salary, and that's only about twenty or twenty-five dollars a year," Edith replied. "You see it's this kind of a school: the missionary ladies rent a little room for a school and hire a native teacher, somebody perhaps who attends one of the mission churches."

"But how can any one afford to teach for so little money?"

"Oh, that's a good deal for them, for the natives of those countries can live on very little, Miss Agnes says. So the missionaries sometimes have a good many of these schools in different parts of the city, and they visit each one every two or three days to see how the children are getting on and to give them religious instruction. Miss Agnes says in that way the missionaries can do something for a great many children, and the more money we bands send to pay teachers the more of these little schools there may be."

Marty could hardly wait for Sat.u.r.day to come. She asked her mother to select a verse for her to say at the meeting.

"For Edith says they all repeat verses when their names are called."

Her mother chose this one for her: "The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of hosts."

CHAPTER IV.

WHOLES INSTEAD OF TENTHS.

When Marty came home from the meeting the next Sat.u.r.day evening, and entered the sitting-room in her usual whirlwind style, she found her father there having a romp with Freddie.

"Why, here is little sister! Well, missy, where have you been?" he asked.

"Why, papa!" exclaimed Marty reproachfully. "To the mission meeting, of course. I told you this morning I was going."

"So you did; and you have told me every morning this week that this was the important day. I don't know how I came to forget it. Well, how did you like the meeting?"

"Oh, ever so much! I heard a great many sad things."

"That's a new reason for liking a thing," said her father.

"I mean," replied Marty, "I liked it because it was so nice and interesting, but I did hear some sad things. Don't you think it's sad to hear of a little school in one of those big, bad Chinese cities, where the children were beginning to learn about Jesus, being broken up because the folks in this country don't send money enough to pay a teacher? And it would only take a little money, too."

"That is certainly very sad."

"Yes; and Miss Agnes told us of other schools that have to send the girls and boys away because there isn't possibly room for them, and there is no money to make the buildings larger. I asked her why the big society in this country--the one where the money from all the bands is sent, you know--didn't just take hold and build plenty of schools, so that all the heathen children might be taught; and she said that the Board--that's the big society--has no money to send but what the churches and Sunday-schools give them, and lately they haven't been giving enough to build all the schools that are wanted. Isn't it awful!"

"A very sad state of affairs," said Mr. Ashford, but he could hardly help smiling a little at Marty's profound indignation.

"I should think the people in this country couldn't sit still and see things going on in such a way," she said. "Why, do you know, Miss Agnes says there are places where the poor people are asking for missionaries, and there are none to send, because there's not money enough to support them. I should think that people would just go and take all their money out of the banks and send it to the Board. Then there would be so much money pouring in that the Board would have to sit up nights to count it."

"No, no; that wouldn't do," said her father. "Little girls don't understand these matters."

"Well, but, papa," she said, coming close to him, dragging her coat after her by one sleeve, "don't you think if everybody were to give as the Lord has prospered them, there would be nearly enough money to do the right thing by the heathen?"

"Yes, there's something in that," answered Mr. Ashford, looking with a queer kind of a smile at his wife, over Marty's head. "But you can't compel every one to do what is right. All you can do is to attend to your own contributions."

"Well," said Marty, half crying in her earnestness, "I started out to give tenths; but as long as there are so many heathen, and so few missionaries, I'm going to give halves or wholes. I can't stand tenths."

And she marched off and put every cent she had in the red box. When she got her weekly allowance, that also went in. Her mother suggested that she would better not give all her money away at once.

"I think," she said, "it would be much better to do as you started to do, and not give in that impulsive way."

But Marty was sure she should not regret it, and declared she was going to give every bit of money she ever should have to send missionaries to the heathen. She was very full of ardor for about two days, though on Monday something occurred that made her feel very bad. She was playing with Freddie in the morning, and when schooltime came he began to whimper, and holding her dress, pleaded,

"Don't go, Marty; play wis me."

She was very fond of her little brother, and proud that he seemed to think more of her than he did of any one else, so she was usually quite gentle with him. She now petted him and coaxed him to let her go, saying when she came home she would bring him a pretty little sponge cake. She often brought these tasty little cakes to Freddie, and he considered them a great treat. The prospect of one quite satisfied him, and after many last kisses he let her go peaceably.

On the way home from school she stopped at the bakery, and it was not until the cake was selected and wrapped up that she remembered she had no money. It was all in her missionary box.

"Oh! I can't take it after all," she said regretfully. "I forgot I have no money."