The Deacon's Tithe by Ada Carleton

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Mar 22, 1883

The Deacon's Tithe.

By Ada Carleton

THEY had a new minister at Seabrook. Old Parson Thornleigh, who had kept the flock for forty years, had gone to his long home; and in his stead had come an honest, plain-spoken young divine, with an earnest, fearless eloquence of his own. And now the worn door-stone of the little gray church on the hill was once more trodden by feet which had long been strangers to it. The minister boarded, having no family, at Deacon Larrabee's.

"He's the least bit uncertain on some points," said the deacon, leaning on his hoe-handle and talking across the fence to his neighbor Gray, who leaned on his hoe-handle to listen,—"a bit uncertain. But I like him—I do, no mistake; and I believe the Lord's going to bless us through him!"

"Amen!" was neighbor Gray's hearty response.

They hoed a dozen hills of corn in silence, their hoes keeping time to the merry song of a bird in the orchard. Then Mr. Gray paused to wipe the perspiration from his face.

"This hot weather's liable to make sickness," said he. "I suppose you've heard that one of the Widow Sperry's boys is down with a fever?"

"Sho! now you don't say so!" exclaimed the deacon, commiseratingly. "Make it hard for her, won't it?"

"Yes, particularly when she's so lately lost her cow. I've been saying that we'd all ought to take hold and make it up to her. If I'd more than one cow on my place I wouldn't stand to talk long; now, I tell you; but I lost my two best ones last spring. If I hadn't—"

It might have been unintentional, that sudden facing about as Mr. Gray threw his glance toward the hill pasture where his neighbor's herd of cows was quietly feeding. At all events, the deacon could scarcely help noticing the action. And he understood its purport. An uneasy flush mounted to his face as he struck vigorously into the next hill.

"She ought to have kept her cow out of the road. My cattle never get into the mill-pond and drown. If they should, I wouldn't expect anybody to make 'em up to me. She'd no more call, had the widow, to let her cow run, than I'd have to turn my whole drove out."

"It's a pretty hard case, nevertheless," said Mr. Gray.

And then the fragmentary conversation, tossed piecemeal back and forth across the fence as the neighbors went steadily on with their work, drifted into indifferent channels.

There had been an interested listener to the colloquy narrated above. On the shady side of the wall which separated Deacon Larrabee's orchard and corn-field sat, book in hand, the Rev. Mr. Weston. He arose, as the chat which floated to his hearing began to be of crops and haying, and walked slowly away along the orchard path with a thoughtful smile upon his face.

That night when the deacon took the shining milk-pails from the dresser and proceeded to the farm-yard, the young clergyman followed him. He stood leaning against the bars, watching the yellow stars come out in the sky, and looking abroad over the deacon's possessions, shadowy now, but substantial enough by daylight.

"You are a prosperous man, deacon."

A smile of supreme satisfaction overspread the deacon's countenance as he stood for a moment patting the sleek neck of a favorite cow.

"Well, yes," said he; "but I've made myself. A pig and a pitchfork, sir, was all I had to begin with."

"How does your neighbor Gray get along?"

"Gray? well, truth to tell, he'll never be forehanded if he lives to the age of Methuselah. He's a hard-working man enough, but why 'tis I can't tell you; there's never a poor creature comes into our town that doesn't head direct for John Gray's. Must be instinct teaches 'em; for he gives to 'em all, deserving or not. I believe he'd take the coat off his back if 'twas needed. He's a good neighbor—a good neighbor; but he'll never get anything, to speak of, ahead."

" 'But lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal,' " quoted the minister.

"Yes, yes; but, if I mind me right, the good Book says something too about providing first for one's own household,—eh?"

Mr. Weston smiled. "I believe there is a passage to that effect," said he.

"And," went on the deacon, a little triumphantly, "if neighbor Gray would give a certain portion—"

"A tithe?" interpolated the minister.

"And not go beyond that," continued Deacon Larrabee, "he'd be better off in one respect, and no worse off in the other, to my thinking. I don't believe in—in indiscriminate giving."

"Nor do I," was the quiet rejoinder. Then there was silence while Deacon Larrabee filled another pail with snowy foam.

"How many cows have you, deacon?"

"Ten," answered the deacon, with a pardonable pride showing itself in voice and feature; "and it's the finest herd in our county. They're grade Jerseys."

"Yes," returned Mr. Weston, a little absently. Then, after a slight pause, "Deacon Larrabee, I overheard the conversation between you and your neighbor Gray this morning, relating to Mrs. Sperry and her misfortunes. Poor lady! she does need substantial sympathy. Cannot you afford to lend a tithe of your cows to the Lord?"

"Which means that I give one of them to the widow," uttered the deacon, with a wry face.

"No, sir; I can't. She wanted to buy one the other day, but I told her I'd none to spare. It was all owing to carelessness that she lost her cow, and I in upholding improvidence. Get it to going on that way, and we'd all be on the town farm before we knew it."

Mr. Weston wore a thoughtful countenance, yet a gleam of something like amusement lighted up his eyes.

"Will you sell me one of your cows?" he asked.

"I—I have no need of the money now," replied the deacon hesitatingly.

The minister continued: "I heard you say this morning that you would be glad to give a good man extra wages to help you through your haying, but that you were afraid it would be difficult to procure the needful assistance at any price. Will you take me, and let me pay for the cow in that way?"

A twinkle, both genial and quizzical, dawned in the deacon's gray eyes. For a moment he studied the young minister attentively. He was not at all what his neighbors would have denominated free-handed, yet he had a just appreciation of the quality of beneficence in other people. Neither was he a hard man at heart. It was only that the prosperity which had attended his every undertaking caused him to look upon the lack of it in a neighbor's affairs as an entirely unnecessary evil,—one which prudence and forethought might overcome. Now he shook the petitioner's hand heartily.

"It's a bargain," said he. "When will you take the cow off my hands?"

"To-night, if you will lend me your assistance," was the ready response.

"Better take one of those I haven't milked," said the deacon, with a smile, "and save me that trouble."

Accordingly, a little time later, the minister, accompanied by the deacon, led his recent acquisition down the farm-house lane, and away along the thoroughfare of the sleepy little hamlet to the tiny cottage where dwelt Mrs. Sperry and her brood. There they fastened the animal to a convenient post, rapped softly, and departed, with the peaceful consciousness which attends upon a worthy deed resting upon one of them, at least, as a mantle.

Next morning when the deacon, hoe on shoulder, was leaving his door-yard for his corn-field, he encountered Mrs. Sperry. Her eyes were red, as with long watching or weeping, and her thin lips trembled with the emotion which she vainly endeavored to conceal.

She put out both hands to him. "Deacon Larrabee," said she, "I have come to thank you, and to ask your forgiveness. Oh, I have had such hard thoughts of you!—how cruelly hard only God knows—and my own heart. Why, I almost came to pray that some dreadful misfortune might overtake you!—and all because you would not sell me the cow you meant to give me."

"I--really—I--" began the deacon. The situation was a most embarrassing one, and rendered doubly so by the knowledge that beside the open window of the room appropriated to his library the minister was sitting, no doubt enjoying the conversation in the fullest measure. "Really, Mrs. Sperry—I--"

"Now, don't try to deny it," laughed the widow, a little nervously. "I know the cow, Deacon Larrabee; and--" she laughed again—"I am bowed down with contrition, to think of my unjust feelings toward you. But I shall always pray that you may prosper, hereafter, deacon; for I am sure you will have a good account of your stewardship for the Master."

The deacon mopped his face in sore perplexity. How could he confess that the gift was none of his? Yet there really seemed no other way of escape from the one-horned dilemma in which he found himself, unless—

Well, the widow's generous thanks were very pleasant to hear; and after a momentary deliberation the old deacon's good sense and genuine manliness came to the fore. He only wished that the happy thought had been his, the charity his own spontaneous deed.

"I am glad if the gift pleases you, Mrs. Sperry," said he, shaking her proffered hand; "and now, please say no more about it. Go into the house and see the woman. I'll warrant she has a glass of jelly for the sick boy."

To Mr. Weston later on he said with a laugh, and a jocular twinkle in his eye, "I've hired my man, and shall not need you; so we'll shake hands and call it square. I think that's what I meant to do all the while, though I wasn't really sensible of it. But I'll tell you one thing, Brother Weston, I don't believe the next tithe will come so hard."—Ada Carleton, in S. S. Times.