Поллианна

           Therewasnoreplythistime,thoughPollyannawaitedpatiently,beforeshetriedagain—byanewroute. 

           "DoYoulikebeingaminister?" 

           TheRev.PaulFordlookedupnow,veryquickly. 

           "DoIlike—Why,whatanoddquestion! Whydoyouaskthat,mydear?" 

           "Nothing—onlythewayyoulooked. Itmademethinkofmyfather. Heusedtolooklikethat—sometimes." 

           "Didhe?" Theminister’svoicewaspolite,buthiseyeshadgonebacktothedriedleafontheground. 

           "Yes,andIusedtoaskhimjustasIdidyouifhewasgladhewasaminister." 

           Themanunderthetreesmiledalittlesadly. 

           "Well—whatdidhesay?" 

           "Oh,healwayssaidhewas,ofcourse,but‘mostalwayshesaid,too,thathewouldn’tSTAYaministeraminuteif‘twasn’tfortherejoicingtexts." 

           "The—WHAT?"TheRev.PaulFord’seyeslefttheleafandgazedwonderinglyintoPollyanna’smerrylittleface. 

           "Well,that’swhatfatherusedtocall‘em,"shelaughed. "OfcoursetheBibledidn’tname‘emthat. Butit’sallthosethatbegin‘BegladintheLord,’or‘Rejoicegreatly,’or‘Shoutforjoy,’andallthat,youknow—suchalotof‘em. Once,whenfatherfeltspeciallybad,hecounted‘em. Therewereeighthundredof‘em." 

           "Eighthundred!" 

           "Yes—thattoldyoutorejoiceandbeglad,youknow; that’swhyfathernamed‘emthe‘rejoicingtexts.’"