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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
41
One
evening
the
Scotch
preacher
came
in.
We
love
him
very
much,
though
he
sometimes
makes
us
laugh--perhaps,
in
part,
because
he
makes
us
laugh.
Externally
he
is
a
sort
of
human
cocoanut,
rough,
brown,
shaggy,
but
within
he
has
the
true
milk
of
human
kindness.
Some
of
his
qualities
touch
greatness.
His
youth
was
spent
in
stony
places
where
strong
winds
blew;
the
trees
where
he
grew
bore
thorns;
the
soil
where
he
dug
was
full
of
roots.
But
the
crop
was
human
love.
He
possesses
that
quality,
unusual
in
one
bred
exclusively
in
the
country,
of
magnanimity
toward
the
unlike.
In
the
country
we
are
tempted
to
throw
stones
at
strange
hats!
But
to
the
Scotch
preacher
every
man
in
one
way
seems
transparent
to
the
soul.
He
sees
the
man
himself,
not
his
professions
any
more
than
his
clothes.
And
I
never
knew
anyone
who
had
such
an
abiding
disbelief
in
the
wickedness
of
the
human
soul.
Weakness
he
sees
and
comforts;
wickedness
he
cannot
see.
When
he
came
in
I
was
busy
whittling
my
axe-helve,
it
being
my
pleasure
at
that
moment
to
make
long,
thin,
curly
shavings
so
light
that
many
of
them
were
caught
on
the
hearth
and
bowled
by
the
draught
straight
to
fiery
destruction.
There
is
a
noisy
zest
about
the
Scotch
preacher:
he
comes
in
"stomping"
as
we
say,
he
must
clear
his
throat,
he
must
strike
his
hands
together;
he
even
seems
noisy
when
he
unwinds
the
thick
red
tippet
which
he
wears
wound
many
times
around
his
neck.
It
takes
him
a
long
time
to
unwind
it,
and
he
accomplishes
the
task
with
many
slow
gyrations
of
his
enormous
rough
head.
When
he
sits
down
he
takes
merely
the
edge
of
the
chair,
spreads
his
stout
legs
apart,
sits
as
straight
as
a
post,
and
blows
his
nose
with
a
noise
like
the
falling
of
a
tree.
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