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Sermons and Woodboxes

           "Yes,Iamsittingup; andIhaven’tbrokenanythingthatdoctorscanmend." Thelastwordswereverylow,butPollyannaheardthem. Aswiftchangecrossedherface. Hereyesglowedwithtendersympathy. 

           "Iknowwhatyoumeansomethingplaguesyou. Fatherusedtofeellikethat,lotsoftimes. Ireckonministersdomostgenerally. Youseethere’ssuchalotdependson‘em,somehow." 

           TheRev.PaulFordturnedalittlewonderingly. 

           "WasYOURfatheraminister,Pollyanna?" 

           "Yes,sir. Didn’tyouknow? Isupposedeverybodyknewthat. HemarriedAuntPolly’ssister,andshewasmymother." 

           "Oh,Iunderstand. But,yousee,Ihaven’tbeenheremanyyears,soIdon’tknowallthefamilyhistories." 

           "Yes,sirImean,no,sir,"smiledPollyanna. 

           Therewasalongpause. Theminister,stillsittingatthefootofthetree,appearedtohaveforgottenPollyanna’spresence. Hehadpulledsomepapersfromhispocketandunfoldedthem; buthewasnotlookingatthem. Hewasgazing,instead,ataleafonthegroundalittledistanceawayanditwasnotevenaprettyleaf. Itwasbrownanddead. Pollyanna,lookingathim,feltvaguelysorryforhim. 

           "Itit’saniceday,"shebeganhopefully. 

           Foramomenttherewasnoanswer; thentheministerlookedupwithastart. 

           "What? Oh! yes,itisaveryniceday." 

           "And‘tisn’tcoldatall,either,evenif‘tisOctober,"observedPollyanna,stillmorehopefully. "Mr.Pendletonhadafire,buthesaidhedidn’tneedit. Itwasjusttolookat. Iliketolookatfires,don’tyou?" 

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