It chanced that the quarterly meeting of the Maine Missionary Society had been appointed just at the time when a letter from Mrs. Burch to Miss Jane Sawyer suggested that Rebecca should form a children’s branch in Riverboro. Mrs. Burch’s real idea was that the young people should save their pennies and divert a gentle stream of financial aid into the parent fund, thus learning early in life to be useful in such work, either at home or abroad.
The girls themselves, however, read into her letter no such modest participation in the conversion of the world, and wishing to effect an organization without delay, they chose an afternoon when every house in the village was vacant, and seized upon the Robinsons’ barn chamber as the place of meeting.
Rebecca, Alice Robinson, Emma Jane Perkins, Candace Milliken, and Persis Watson, each with her hymn book, had climbed the ladder leading to the haymow a half hour before Abijah Flagg had heard the strains of “Daughters of Zion” floating out to the road. Rebecca, being an executive person, had carried, besides her hymn book, a silver call-bell and pencil and paper. An animated discussion regarding one of two names for the society, The Junior Heralds or The Daughters of Zion, had resulted in a unanimous vote for the latter, and Rebecca had been elected president at an early stage of the meeting. She had modestly suggested that Alice Robinson, as the granddaughter of a missionary to China, would be much more eligible.
“No,” said Alice, with entire good nature, “whoever is ELECTED president, you WILL be, Rebecca—you’re that kind—so you might as well have the honor; I’d just as lieves be secretary, anyway.”
“If you should want me to be treasurer, I could be, as well as not,” said Persis Watson suggestively; “for you know my father keeps china banks at his store—ones that will hold as much as two dollars if you will let them. I think he’d give us one if I happen to be treasurer.”
The three principal officers were thus elected at one fell swoop and with an entire absence of that red tape which commonly renders organization so tiresome, Candace Milliken suggesting that perhaps she’d better be vice-president, as Emma Jane Perkins was always so bashful.
“We ought to have more members,” she reminded the other girls, “but if we had invited them the first day they’d have all wanted to be officers, especially Minnie Smellie, so it’s just as well not to ask them till another time. Is Thirza Meserve too little to join?”
“I can’t think why anybody named Meserve should have called a baby Thirza,” said Rebecca, somewhat out of order, though the meeting was carried on with small recognition of parliamentary laws. “It always makes me want to say:
Thirza Meserver
Heaven preserve her!
Thirza Meserver
Do we deserve her?
She’s little, but she’s sweet, and absolutely without guile. I think we ought to have her.”
“Is ‘guile’ the same as ‘guilt?” inquired Emma Jane Perkins.
“Yes,” the president answered; “exactly the same, except one is written and the other spoken language.” (Rebecca was rather good at imbibing information, and a master hand at imparting it!) “Written language is for poems and graduations and occasions like this—kind of like a best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress that you wouldn’t like to go blueberrying in for fear of getting it spotted.”
“I’d just as ‘lieves get ‘guile’ spotted as not,” affirmed the unimaginative Emma Jane. “I think it’s an awful foolish word; but now we’re all named and our officers elected, what do we do first? It’s easy enough for Mary and Martha Burch; they just play at missionarying because their folks work at it, same as Living and I used to make believe be blacksmiths when we were little.”
“It must be nicer missionarying in those foreign places,” said Persis, “because on ‘Afric’s shores and India’s plains and other spots where Satan reigns’ (that’s father’s favorite hymn) there’s always a heathen bowing down to wood and stone. You can take away his idols if he’ll let you and give him a bible and the beginning’s all made. But who’ll we begin on? Jethro Small?”
“Oh, he’s entirely too dirty, and foolish besides!” exclaimed Candace. “Why not Ethan Hunt? He swears dreadfully.”
“He lives on nuts and is a hermit, and it’s a mile to his camp through the thick woods; my mother’ll never let me go there,” objected Alice. “There’s Uncle Tut Judson.”
“He’s too old; he’s most a hundred and deaf as a post,” complained Emma Jane. “Besides, his married daughter is a Sabbath-school teacher—why doesn’t she teach him to behave? I can’t think of anybody just right to start on!”
“Don’t talk like that, Emma Jane,” and Rebecca’s tone had a tinge of reproof in it. “We are a copperated body named the Daughters of Zion, and, of course, we’ve got to find something to do. Foreigners are the easiest; there’s a Scotch family at North Riverboro, an English one in Edgewood, and one Cuban man at Millkin’s Mills.”
“Haven’t foreigners got any religion of their own?” inquired Persis curiously.
“Ye-es, I s’pose so; kind of a one; but foreigners’ religions are never right—ours is the only good one.” This was from Candace, the deacon’s daughter.
“I do think it must be dreadful, being born with a religion and growing up with it, and then finding out it’s no use and all your time wasted!” Here Rebecca sighed, chewed a straw, and looked troubled.
“Well, that’s your punishment for being a heathen,” retorted Candace, who had been brought up strictly.
“But I can’t for the life of me see how you can help being a heathen if you’re born in Africa,” persisted Persis, who was well named.
“You can’t.” Rebecca was clear on this point. “I had that all out with Mrs. Burch when she was visiting Aunt Miranda. She says they can’t help being heathen, but if there’s a single mission station in the whole of Africa, they’re accountable if they don’t go there and get saved.”
“Are there plenty of stages and railroads?” asked Alice; “because there must be dreadfully long distances, and what if they couldn’t pay the fare?”
“That part of it is so dreadfully puzzly we mustn’t talk about it, please,” said Rebecca, her sensitive face quivering with the force of the problem. Poor little soul! She did not realize that her superiors in age and intellect had spent many a sleepless night over that same “accountability of the heathen.”
“It’s too bad the Simpsons have moved away,” said Candace. “It’s so seldom you can find a real big wicked family like that to save, with only Clara Belle and Susan good in it.”
“And numbers count for so much,” continued Alice. “My grandmother says if missionaries can’t convert about so many in a year the Board advises them to come back to America and take up some other work.”
“I know,” Rebecca corroborated; “and it’s the same with revivalists. At the Centennial picnic at North Riverboro, a revivalist sat opposite to Mr. Ladd and Aunt Jane and me, and he was telling about his wonderful success in Bangor last winter. He’d converted a hundred and thirty in a month, he said, or about four and a third a day. I had just finished fractions,
