And it was all for
worthy objects, these pretty functions graced by girls and matrons in
their best attire, with the products of their little hands offered,
or even forced, upon the outsider who was held up for the ticket.
They gambled shamelessly to buy a new carpet for the church. There
was plain and brazen raffling for dreadful lamps and patent rockers
and dolls which did not look fit to be owned by nice little
girl-mothers, and all for the church organ, the minister's salary and
such like. Of this description was the church fair held in Brookville
to raise money to pay the Reverend Wesley Elliot. He came early, and
haunted the place like a morbid spirit. He was both angry and shamed
that such means must be employed to pay his just dues, but since it
had to be he could not absent himself.
There was no parlor in the church, and not long after the infamous
exit of Andrew Bolton the town hall had been destroyed by fire.
Therefore all such functions were held in a place which otherwise was
a source of sad humiliation to its owner: Mrs. Amos Whittle, the
deacon's wife's unfurnished best parlor. It was a very large room,
and poor Mrs. Whittle had always dreamed of a fine tapestry carpet,
furniture upholstered with plush, a piano, and lace curtains.
Her dreams had never been realized. The old tragedy of the little
village had cropped dreams, like a species of celestial foliage,
close to their roots. Poor Mrs. Whittle, although she did not realize
it, missed her dreams more than she would have missed the furniture
of that best parlor, had she ever possessed and lost it.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27