Yet
sometimes I've heerd of sich men goin' to furren fields. An' why is that,
Mr. Dale?'
"'That they might do more work fer the Master,' sez he.
"'I think yer wrong thar,' sez I. 'Now, look here. To enter a country
parish is to be almost unknown, an' people say, 'Oh, he's only a country
parson,' an' they stick up their ugly noses, which they think are
acristocat. But let a man go to a furren field, an', my lands! they
blubber over 'im an' make a great fuss. If he combs the head of a little
nigger brat out thar in Africy--though no doubt he needs it--why the
missionary magazines an' papers are full of it. If he pulls the tooth of
an old Injun chief who has a dozen wives taggin' around after 'im, the
people hold up thar hands in wonder, an' call 'im a hero. But let a man
stay at hum in a parish like Glendow, an' no one hears of his doin's,
cause they don't want to.'"
"My! ye didn't say all that?" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, "an' to a rale
live missionary, too."
"Them's the exact words I said, an' them ain't all," rattled on Mrs.
Stickles. "I had me tongue on 'im then, an' it did me good to see his
face.
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