Dale, the missionary who was here
last summer. Now, there was a man up to whom the young men could look, a
reglar soldier, who had been in the fight in Africy, had lived among
lions, tagers and niggers. He was a hero, an' if we could git a rale live
missionary like that, he'd make Glendow hum, an' the old church 'ud be
packed to the doors every Sunday. It's them missionaries who has the hard
time. Oh, they're wonderful people. Parson John's a good man, but he ain't
in the same line with them nohow. He's too commonplace, an' don't stir the
people up."
For a while Mrs. Stickles did not reply. She wiped her hands on her apron,
and crossing the room took down a small pot, put in a little tea, filled
it with water, and set it on the back of the stove to draw. Next she
brought forth some large frosted doughnuts, and after she had poured a cup
of tea for Mrs. McKrigger and one for herself she sat down upon an old
splint-bottomed chair.
"Did I ever tell ye the conversation I had with Mr. Dale, that missionary
from Africy?" she at length asked.
"No, I never heerd it," came the reply.
"Well, that's queer, an' it happened only last summer, too.
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