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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
43
"Man,"
exclaimed
the
preacher,
"it
has
no
character.
Now
your
helve
here,
being
the
vision
of
your
brain
and
work
of
your
hands,
will
interpret
the
thought
of
your
heart."
Before
the
Scotch
preacher
had
finished
his
disquisition
upon
the
art
of
helve-making
and
its
relations
with
all
other
arts,
I
felt
like
Peary
discovering
the
Pole.
In
the
midst
of
the
discourse,
while
I
was
soaring
high,
the
Scotch
preacher
suddenly
stopped,
sat
up,
and
struck
his
knee
with
a
tremendous
resounding
smack.
"Spoons!"
he
exclaimed.
Harriet
and
I
stopped
and
looked
at
him
in
astonishment.
"Spoons,"
repeated
Harriet.
"Spoons,"
said
the
Scotch
preacher.
"I've
not
once
thought
of
my
errand;
and
my
wife
told
me
to
come
straight
home.
I'm
more
thoughtless
every
day!"
Then
he
turned
to
Harriet:
"I've
been
sent
to
borrow
some
spoons,"
he
said.
"Spoons!"
exclaimed
Harriet.
"Spoons,"
answered
the
Scotch
preacher.
"We've
invited
friends
for
dinner
to-morrow,
and
we
must
have
spoons."
"But
why--how--I
thought--"
began
Harriet,
still
in
astonishment.
The
Scotch
preacher
squared
around
toward
her
and
cleared
his
throat.
"It's
the
baptisms,"
he
said:
"when
a
baby
is
brought
for
baptism,
of
course
it
must
have
a
baptismal
gift.
What
is
the
best
gift
for
a
baby?
A
spoon.
So
we
present
it
with
a
spoon.
To-day
we
discovered
we
had
only
three
spoons
left,
and
company
coming.
Man,
'tis
a
proleefic
neighbourhood."
He
heaved
a
great
sigh.
Harriet
rushed
out
and
made
up
a
package.
When
she
came
in
I
thought
it
seemed
suspiciously
large
for
spoons,
but
the
Scotch
preacher
having
again
launched
into
the
lore
of
the
chopper,
took
it
without
at
first
perceiving
anything
strange.
Five
minutes
after
we
had
closed
the
door
upon
him
he
suddenly
returned
holding
up
the
package.
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