Adventures in Contentment

"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.