The Story Girl
Peter Makes An Impression
Peter's turn came next. He did not write his sermon out. That, he averred, was too hard
work. Nor did he mean to take a text.
"Why, who ever heard of a sermon without a text?" asked Felix blankly.
"I am going to take a SUBJECT instead of a text," said Peter loftily. "I ain't going to tie
myself down to a text. And I'm going to have heads in it--three heads. You hadn't a single
head in yours," he added to me.
"Uncle Alec says that Uncle Edward says that heads are beginning to go out of fashion," I
said defiantly--all the more defiantly that I felt I should have had heads in my sermon. It
would doubtless have made a much deeper impression. But the truth was I had forgotten
all about such things.
"Well, I'm going to have them, and I don't care if they are unfashionable," said Peter.
"They're good things. Aunt Jane used to say if a man didn't have heads and stick to them
he'd go wandering all over the Bible and never get anywhere in particular."
"What are you going to preach on?" asked Felix.
"You'll find out next Sunday," said Peter significantly.
The next Sunday was in October, and a lovely day it was, warm and bland as June. There
was something in the fine, elusive air, that recalled beautiful, forgotten things and
suggested delicate future hopes. The woods had wrapped fine-woven gossamers about
them and the westering hill was crimson and gold.
We sat around the Pulpit Stone and waited for Peter and Sara Ray. It was the former's
Sunday off and he had gone home the night before, but he assured us he would be back in
time to preach his sermon. Presently he arrived and mounted the granite boulder as if to
the manor born. He was dressed in his new suit and I, perceiving this, felt that he had the
advantage of me. When I preached I had to wear my second best suit, for it was one of
Aunt Janet's laws that we should take our good suits off when we came home from
church. There were, I saw, compensations for being a hired boy.
Peter made quite a handsome little minister, in his navy blue coat, white collar, and neatly
bowed tie. His black eyes shone, and his black curls were brushed up in quite a
ministerial pompadour, but threatened to tumble over at the top in graceless ringlets.
It was decided that there was no use in waiting for Sara Ray, who might or might not
come, according to the humour in which her mother was. Therefore Peter proceeded with