THE RURA.lv NEW-YORKER 
1165 
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The Boy on the Lonely Road 
The Pastoral Parson Tells How He Gets All the Boys 
By Rev. Geo. B. Gilbert 
A School-house Supper. —“Children,” 
said a rather irate school-marm ’way 
down in a district school-house one morn¬ 
ing, “how did this mess about the stove 
come here? It’s awful.” The girls tit¬ 
tered and the boys looked a bit sheepish. 
Finally Frank, the largest boy, spoke up. 
“We had a little supper here last night 
—we big boys—and a meetin'.” “But 
these spots on the stove and pipe and 
floor,” persisted the teacher. “Well,” 
continued Frank, “you see Mr. Gilbert 
brought down a chicken in his grip and 
we fellers got the other things but in 
frying the chicken we had no cover for 
the skillet and it spattered something 
fierce.” “Very well,” said the teacher, 
“you go home and get some scrubbing 
powder and clean up those grease spots.” 
And Frank did as he was told, but he 
didn’t look mad about it—he had on one 
of those broad smiles that a boy wears 
when he thinks of having all the fried 
chicken and cocoa and bread he could 
stand up to. Such a good time as 
the boys and I had the night before. We 
had the feed first, for a boy is always 
hungry (if not he needs a doctor right 
away) and then we got out the Gospel 
hymn books from my old big grip and 
had a good sing by ourselves, and then 
we had a prayer and then we had two 
baptisms. Three of the fellows stood 
sponsor for the other two. When the 
Bishop came there was a whole class of 
big boys to be confirmed. They are my 
standbys there in that district. The 
other day it came time for the service 
and one was missing. “Can’t see where 
Pat is,” they kept saying, “can’t see 
where Pat is. There must be something 
the matter.” “Pat” as the boys call 
him had been delayed, but he soon showed 
up as usual. 
The Boy and the Church. —In most 
of our churches the boys don’t show up; 
we all know that, especially so with the 
country boy, unless he is compelled to go. 
The Pastoral Parson was compelled to 
go whether he liked it or not. lie 
worked every minute literally on the 
farm all the week, Sunday morning up 
and through with the chores and a bath 
in the washtub, then salt the cows and 
pick a chicken and after dinner hustle, 
walk and half run for over a mile up hill 
to church. IIow well I remember that 
scalding sun on my back in Summer, 
with that heavy shoddy suit and those 
out-grown squeaking shoes torturing my 
usually barefoot feet! Everything on 
Sunday morning was unnatural. Our 
good neighbor across the way, a deacon, 
walked different, talked different and 
looked entirely different on Sunday. lie 
would hardly notice us on that day at 
all. A frigid dignity encased him. We 
children would sneak into church as 
quietly as our shoes would permit, and 
then we were cheered by the good news 
(Gospel) that not only were we sinners 
hut miserable sinners and that do the best 
we could we would probably not be 
saved anyway, as God had long ago de¬ 
cided on the few he was going to save. 
Then we hustled home again just as soon 
as we could, on with our overalls, and at 
the chores, as service was in the after¬ 
noon. Thus were we cheered and rested 
for another week on the farm. I do not 
recall a minister ever speaking to me 
but once on a Sunday—or any other time 
for that matter— and that was when I 
cut oil’ the end of my finger in an old- 
fashioned, self-feeding, crank-turned, 
corn cutter which father had forbidden 
us to use, and my natural gift of curios¬ 
ity had ordered me to use just for once. 
I always felt the minister was looking 
at that rag on my finger during the ser¬ 
vice, but I successfully dodged him un¬ 
til one day he cornered me in the corner 
by the stove. I can hear his voice as 
plainly as I heard it ’most 40 years 
ago. “Cut off your finger, I see. Dis¬ 
obeyed your parent, I understand.” IIow 
I hated that man! lie never got nearer 
than a dog to a rabbit to me again. 
The Minister’s Coming.—S hall I 
ever forget his calls to the old farm¬ 
house! He, like all of them, used to 
tell the women folks when he was com¬ 
ing. From that time the house was in 
perfect turmoil. Father’s part was to 
saw the bottom of the front door off 
again so that it could be pried open to 
let him in. We boys worked the front 
door bell for about live minutes to make 
sure he would have strength enough to 
sound it. Long disuse always made it 
rusty. One of the women folks was del¬ 
egated to dress up ready to entertain him 
on his arrival, the others fairly flew to 
the kitchen. I remember one time in hay¬ 
ing seeing his fat horse labor across the 
flat towards the house while we boys 
were cocking up witch grass. Did he pull 
up and come over the wall and have a 
word with us? Did he take a fork and 
cock up a few? Did he come around the 
barn and talk with us at our work? 
Did he know that a boy loves a white 
bow tie and a frock coat as a kingbird 
loves a crow? Hot raised biscuit made 
up the heart of these minister suppers in 
our house. When we got the milk pails 
we got a glance at them; when we 
brought in the milk we got a smell of 
them. When we had restaked and wat¬ 
ered the calves we got the sound of the 
minister’s voice as he buttered the hot 
biscuit and talked in his Sunday, ser- 
mony tone and then we took our handout 
and went to bed. How I blessed the 
back stairs in those calling days, other¬ 
wise we would have had to have gone 
up a ladder through a window! 
The Pastoral Parson’s Call. —It is 
quite a fad nowadays to ask ministers 
why they went into the ministry. “Tell 
us about your call,” they say. The Pas¬ 
toral Parson's call did not all come from 
God. Perhaps there didn’t any of it! 
But it came from boyhood. Could it be 
possible that it came via that route from 
God? It came from the boyhood that 
never has a skate like other boys, that 
never has a decent ball and store bat like 
other boys, that jumps up and down in 
the road trying to make himself think he 
is on a wheel, that is so yelled and sworn 
at when he leads the horse on the corn 
planter so that he sits by night in the 
horse barn and gazes through his tears 
at a dangling rope and tries to muster 
up courage to tie it to the high beam 
and hang himself. The trouble with a 
Pastoral Parson’s call is that it still 
keeps screaming in his ears. 
Present Boyhood Calls. —It comes 
to him now from the hoy who has no 
home, who lives out, and eats in the 
kitchen, and his food is doled out to him 
and he never has enough and it says, 
“Let up a while on your sipping tea and 
eating wafers with tin 1 ladies and bring 
down your old big grip with its bread 
and cocoa.” It comes from the boy whose 
mouth is dry and parched and open, and 
it says “Come down and tell ray folks of 
the hospital and the free cots and how 
adenoids are eating my life away.” It 
comes from the boy who never sees the 
(Continued on page 11<>7.) 
