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Sermons and Woodboxes

           Therewasnoreplythistime,thoughPollyannawaitedpatiently,beforeshetriedagainbyanewroute. 

           "DoYoulikebeingaminister?" 

           TheRev.PaulFordlookedupnow,veryquickly. 

           "DoIlikeWhy,whatanoddquestion! Whydoyouaskthat,mydear?" 

           "Nothingonlythewayyoulooked. Itmademethinkofmyfather. Heusedtolooklikethatsometimes." 

           "Didhe?" Theminister’svoicewaspolite,buthiseyeshadgonebacktothedriedleafontheground. 

           "Yes,andIusedtoaskhimjustasIdidyouifhewasgladhewasaminister." 

           Themanunderthetreesmiledalittlesadly. 

           "Wellwhatdidhesay?" 

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

           "TheWHAT?"TheRev.PaulFord’seyeslefttheleafandgazedwonderinglyintoPollyanna’smerrylittleface. 

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

           "Eighthundred!" 

           "Yesthattoldyoutorejoiceandbeglad,youknow; that’swhyfathernamed‘emthe‘rejoicingtexts.’" 

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Roboto Lora
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