MY DEAR LUCILE,

Rahway, N. D.

So you think I need sympathy because I married a minister. Well, I know one or two prunes of ministers with dried peaches of wives, but that isn't yours truly and John. Put this down in your book of remembrance-I may be a bride of only a few weeks, but I am thoroughly convinced that I shall always be supremely happy. What makes people gasp when a young girl marries a minister? There are fewer poor preachers than poor insurance men and poor plasterers.

Already the humorous side of our ministerial life has struck me. I know there will be times when I shall recall these humorous episodes they may act as a tonic for those other experiences that will be mine and will not be humorous. There will be trying times, too, but that is not typical only of the manse in a country charge. No doubt every parishioner could testify to the same thing in an experience meeting.

Life has its compensations no matter where one finds oneself. You need not smile when I say "compensations" for a minister's wife. When John preaches a good sermon the grand old saints tell me about it, and I shine in his reflected glory. When he doesn't I know it, too—they tell me by a silent eloquence that fairly rumbles. You see I am sensitive to atmosphere, and often it is a boon. In any other walk of life a woman never knows her husband's weak spots-sometimes she doesn't even know he has them till he is fired. With a parson the presbytery gives you a few weeks' notice, sometimes three months.

In this short time I have discovered that all my portable furniture surpasses anything owned by any frau in the burg. No one told me pointblank, of course, but I found out. The second week we were here the ushers' association gave a mock trial for "the benefit of a new carpet in the Sunday-school room." (Some cause

for a benefit, too.) The wives of those ushers served eats afterward. They asked me to lend my two Windsor chairs (you see the ladies have all called on me in groups. I guess they found out that way what I had, for I have never mentioned my wedding presents.) They borrowed a dozen forks, a soup-ladle, can-opener, and six tumblers. Somehow one tumbler got broken and one of the forks lost. The poor woman who borrowed the things felt very badly, indeed. I told her, since we were all Presbyterians, it must have been foreordained. We might as well make our religion practical and a "very present help in time of trouble."

Raised a Methodist and married to a Presbyterian clergyman, my ideas about things good and righteous are apt to be queer. I often feel like a spiritual mongrel or religious hobo. The combination hasn't wrought havoc yet, though a couple of times I have felt symptoms of spontaneous combustion. There are consolations in both. You see it is almost an impossibility for a Presbyterian to fall from grace, and Methodists get a heap and a pile of comfort out of being reclaimed, even after the seventeenth time. I've heard them shout for joy as they entered the fold after a turn at playing prodigal.

I suppose that you think me too carnal for a parson's wife; maybe I am, but so far John doesn't think so. Watch meit's my job and my joy, and I'll make good. If I fail it will be through no lack of trying.

I must make sandwiches for İ entertain the Missionary Society to-night. Yours, MARTHA.

MY DEAR LUCILE,

We've had our first wedding, and I had to be witness. I was busy putting up draperies, but I stopped and put on a fresh frock and proceeded to witness. I sat on the edge of the davenport and held my breath, for I saw that John was nervous. He found the wrong place in the

ritual and began with the baptismal service. I almost fainted. Fortunately brides and grooms are not conscious during the wedding ceremony, and when John said, "Let us pray," they thought that was all right. During the prayer John went joyfully to the right place in the ritual, and continued the marrying in proper form. Everything went all right till John said "To have and to hold," and three times that poor bewildered groom said "To have and behold." John tried three times to get him to say it right, and I am sure the groom thinks the repetition was for emphasis. If he is still beholding he knows the bride is no Venus, though I feel sure she is a good cook.

I used to wonder what good Greek would ever do me. I enjoyed it, but never dreamed I would find a use for it. I know now that it was providential that I studied Greek with all its little details and twists and turns. They come in handy now, not so much the details but the twists and turns. I do a bit of figuring in managing the family pocketbook. We always have enough, but I was wondering this morning what the Baptist clergyman down the street does when all the children need their shoes mended at once. Do you suppose that when a minister preaches a rather mediocre sermon on, "Fret not thyself," he is trying to get his own faith on top of circumstances. The next Sunday he preaches a sequel, "Every good and perfect gift is from above," then you may be sure that he and his wife have had a donation or a $10.00 wedding. I think it is always true that ministers preach the best when the text comes to them from their own experiences, for sermons that come that way are heart sermons and not head sermons. I shall never forget a sermon from the text, "Yet I am not alone,' for I knew from the very start of that sermon the preacher had found a solace in that thought himself.

Now, this is what bothers me-I just cannot get some people's idea of religion. I actually got mad in prayer-meeting last Wednesday. We have one elder who everlastingly prays for "the good old times like they had in Missouri." Well, why doesn't he go back to Missouri? I could conscientiously pay his fare out of my tenth money. I wonder if the people in VOL. LXXXII.—36

Missouri were so much better in those days than they are now. Perhaps the brother has fallen from grace himself and is trying to get back again by praying in the plural number, publicly. Why doesn't he ask the Lord outright? You can't fool the Lord, he knows all about you. It seems if we are to be consistent we should forget the things behind and press forward in every way. I'll watch the man; he may be one of the same type we called spiritual somersaulters, at home.

There are several things I could tell you if I had time, but I'll stop this minute, though by now, no doubt, you are reciting portions of Tennyson's babbling brook Always yours,

that went on forever.

MARTHA.

P. S.-I am still glad that I married a minister and that that minister is John.

DEAR LUCILE,

Didn't I tell you there are fun and humor in the life of a family in a manse? Imagine Mrs. John trotting out in the frosty night while the stars twinkled brightly and a feline chorus chanted "Home Sweet Home," somewhere off in the distance to take care of a croupy baby. Why they sent for me I do not know, except that I have discovered that the wife of a country preacher is supposed to know everything. I truly did not know what to do, but something had to be done right away. I had visions of hot lard being put on a baby brother when he had croup. The more I thought of it the more I was sure that was the thing to do. On went the lard, then we wrapped the wee mite up in flannel, and I started for home. I incorporated that child in my prayers that night, for I was convinced that our success as pastor and wife depended on that child's condition the next morning. It may have been the lard, it may have been the prayer, I think it was the combination, but the child got well. I have a head of cabbage, nine yellow turnips and a pumpkin pie as my reward. I am sorry the wee thing had to suffer, but I do love pumpkin pie. It's an ill wind that blows no one some good.

We were invited out for dinner last night. It did seem good to eat what I had neither cooked nor planned for some

one else to cook. I ate so many extra calories my husband will soon discover that he has more than he bargained for, and will love me by the pound. Mrs. Hobson is a motherly soul, and somehow I found myself confessing I was a bit homesick. I'd like to cultivate her for I am sure I should like her more and more. She has a fund of good common sense, is calm and deliberate, and works so easily she reminds me of my father's mother. I have sensed this much-the former minister's wife openly preferred one or two of the ladies as her close friends, and it wasn't long till some of the other dear souls were hurt. Surely, some parishioners are more congenial than others, and I think I can understand the little mix-up that the minister's wife got into. (Never end a sentence with a preposition, it's very bad form, yes ma'am.) I do wonder why it is hard for some ministers' wives to be democratic. A real aristocrat can afford to be the most democratic person on earth; he has everything and can lose nothing. Surely he could bend without stooping.

We went for a beautiful ride along the Bay Shore road on Thursday. I have seldom seen such a sunset. The ride cleared out a lot of my mental cobwebs and rested me, too. The fall of the year has been called the melancholy time of year, but I never feel that way. The leaves were gorgeous and beggared description. There seemed to be a final flare of glory over everything, as if nature were doing her best to shine radiantly before her winter sleep. Squirrels darted across the road carrying nuts to the hollow trees, and now and then we caught sight of a rabbit that had been disturbed in its meditation by some ruthless wanderer. Hugo might have been describing fall instead of spring when he said: "is at carry arms and wears a full dress uniform."

John has a visiting brother preaching for him this coming Sunday. It is our first experience with a substitute, and we are a little anxious. Lots of very good men are not good preachers but are successful because they are good pastors. The Lord seems to call them in spite of their limitations, so I shouldn't be concerned. I want this man to be the goodpreacher type, though, for what he does will pave the way for our second visitor,

who represents the needs of the hospital. (I don't mean that he looks like the needs of the hospital, but he will tell us of them.) If the first man is poor the second man will have no audience at all.

I wish I were wealthy. I would not hoard my money but I would give so liberally to institutions that men who should be laboring in churches where they could ease the cares of the over-burdened, and calm the fears of the anxious, and do helpful work in the pulpit, these men could be doing those very things instead of developing into good beggars for charity. It is the best sob story that brings the largest haul anyway, so often the worthiest cause is supported inadequately because its champion cannot sniffle naturally.

I hope you can visit me this fall before it gets too cool to ride comfortably. We have a second-hand Ford, dubbed, by common consent, "Henrietta." It or she gets us around the country and think of all I could say while riding, and haven't the time to write. Remember those good gabfests we had discussing everything from the League of Nations to spring millinery.

Come and get a life-size picture of me as the contented mistress of the manse. You see I like to remind you that you said I couldn't Do it or BE it, whichever way you want to say it. Till next time,

My DEAR, MY DEAR,

MARTHA.

Every minister who owns a Ford car should have an assistant, not as general handy man and mechanic, but as assistant preacher to do all the swearing. These ministers are "Called" all right, I don't doubt that-but when they undertake this high and noble service they can't leave ALL the traces of old Adam behind. I wouldn't have you infer that John swore when Henrietta had her convulsion, but I truly think he would have done that if I had not been along. We were on our way to a harvest-home away out in the country. Our church has a godchild there. They pay a part of their own expenses, we buy coal and get their pulpit supplies for them, students from the seminary near here. They have a preaching service every two weeks. This particular affair

we wished to attend was the first social they have had since we came to Rahway. Their programme was short and to the point (?) a second edition of Ichabod Crane recited "That Old Sweetheart of Mine," and a dear little lassie sang, "When He Cometh to Make Up His Jewels." The dominie spieled a bit and I gathered some information from these wholesome, sensible, capable country wives. I gathered wisdom that wasn't labelled that way, too.

Why in the world do college fellows use their country congregations as reservoirs for all their theses? It seems to me a terrible mistake to allow these callow youths to literally dump all they have gathered from Darwin, Huxley, Bergson, James, and all the other celebrities on a defenceless congregation. Really, the average person who goes to church, especially where there is only one service in two weeks, doesn't care a snap about James's idea of one's mental condition, nor whether Freud knew all about dreams or not. Most people can find that out at a circus for a quarter and get fun out of it beside. When they go to church they want the assurance that the Lord is a personal Lord and looks after them through rain and shine and that "even the hairs of their heads are numbered." I do enjoy immensely what these intelligent scientists have to say about these matters, but I know I have wit enough not to pour all I read into the ears of a tired housewife who has struggled with all sorts of complications during a hard week of work, and who looks forward to Sunday as the day when she can gather enough of Christian grace and energy and endurance to keep her sweet when the windmill won't work, and she carries all the water herself because the man of the house and the hired man have gone to a cattle sale. (Some sentence, wouldn't pass muster in an English class.)

The last "supply" left the congregation dangling by their tails, or their ancestors' tails somewhere in mid-air, forgetting even in the opening prayer to thank God for His all-wise protection. I think it takes a great God to make us copies of an original that was made in His image; it would take as great a God to make us "evolute," either way is better than I

could possibly have done it. I'd like to have that young theologue around here, two years hence, to help the elders pray back to spiritual life the young men and boys whose lives his own lack of wisdom warped.

Well, after all that rambling I will tell you the pie and coffee we ate at the close of our first "sociable" were delicious. The coffee kept me from dozing on the way home, and helped me to give John the right hand of Christian fellowship-I mean the right and left hand of a mechanic, for Henrietta had another attack on the way home, about two miles out in the country. It acted and sounded like asthma. Later it looked more like hardening of the arteries. I had a bit of adhesive in my pocketbook, and we always carry some old rags. Henrietta got first aid, and we coughed our way home hitting on two cylinders.

My nephew Herbert comes next week for a few days, while his mother goes to the hospital for a minor operation. He is an original child, and I am sure will give me many a happy moment.

Hope your kiddie is better than when you last wrote.

We have made a few pastoral calls this week and I have had little time for extras. Herbert takes a good many spare moments, too. I have played everything from fire-engine to cannibal. Even played house. I was the mother, Herbert the father. Our clothespin babies were disobedient, and when I told father Herbert about it, he said: "Well, the fathers tell children what to do but the mother makes them mind." Guess I know who is boss in their home. We played animals, too, and never tell me that children can't think things out for themselves. Herbert said. he didn't want to be a skunk and have to smell himself all the time. He wanted to know if giraffes cried when they got their necks washed. That would be a long cry, methinks.

I am the mother confessor to some of the parish. One dear young thing came to me to say she loved her husband, but he got so on her nerves. In my life I have

heard at least the fifty-seven variety of sermons on the seven Greek words meaning love, the pλew and ayaπáw being the most important. I told the young wife to use all kinds of the attribute known to the Greek father, the whole seven, separately and combined, and then manufacture a brand extra for the times her husband got on her nerves, and see how it worked. Most young people think there is only one kind-you must have all if you would kindle the divine spark that flames into the divine emotion.

Many men think love means possession; the fierceness with which they fight is the theme of many a yarn. To most women love means protection, that difference in viewpoint makes many a married life a plain endurance contest.

I often think women love men not for their faults, of course, but in spite of them. True love conquers everything, holds one steady, and sets that pace that leads to great accomplishment. The hardest person in all this world to deal with is the selfish person. Enough of that.

Went to an evening of song and poetry one night this week. The reader gave several selections from Vachel Lindsay's poems. In true Lindsay style the audience was asked to join in the choruses. That is Lindsay's method of taking the crowd with him. One selection carries the line, "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" The reader recited all the rest of the poem, and we sang each "are you washed" line. (Washing and line go together; that's good, though purely accidental.) I looked the crowd over and could pick out the denominations represented: the Methodists were singing joyously, they were washed and knew it; the Presbyterians had an eager, yearning look; they had had redemption all worked out for them so far back that they couldn't feel the thrill. The Baptists enjoyed just the mere suggestion of a deluge; but the poor Episcopalians suffered sorely. (If we could have sung a seven-fold amen at the end it would have helped.) John says I am sacrilegious.

Herbert leaves Saturday and I shall miss him. Do you accept or decline my invitation?

Yours,

MARTHA.

MY DEAR LADY,

We have just come in from a long ride into the country. I packed a few sandwiches to eat along the way for we wished to take advantage of the lovely day and stay out as long as possible. There will be only a few more such days till winter.

If I were a poet I could write reams about this wonderful country. The bare trees looked like sentinels with their arms stretched out to protect the small bushes and shrubs. The little brooks do not chatter this time of year, they chant-a chant the leading note of which has a hopeful tone. Poets understand these things better than do we, creatures of common clay. That may be why they have discovered sermons in stones and tongues in running brooks.

The women are working hard for our bazaar. There is a decided social value to sales and suppers and bazaars, but more than that I do not see their worth nor their usefulness. I always experience a sense of humiliation when I hear of one being advertised, "for the benefit of the church." If any one of these dear, hardworking females was asked for a $15.00 donation, I'd need all the aromatics made when I go calling next time; they couldn't stand the shock. But this I know to be a fact-one woman with five children gave two cakes and bought one back, six handkerchiefs, a jar of pickles, three glasses of jelly, and a quart of pepper relish, and then brought all the children to the supper for two nights at 65¢ per head. Now figure that up and what do you get? Fifteen dollars, anyway. Of course the work doesn't count.

Don't breathe this to a soul. I am backsliding, and I thought a Presbyterian couldn't. I get riled so easily. The chair-lady of the house committee of the Lady Aiders (that is what we children all called them at home, and I have almost made a social break twice in public using that couplet), came to see about two new curtains that I needed for a room I am fixing on the third floor for a colored girl who comes in twice a week to clean and wash windows. She has to stay all night. This lady is President of the Women's Foreign Missionary Society, too, and didn't she say the room was entirely too good for a maid, especially a colored one?