“Man,” exclaimed the preacher, “it has no character.  Now your helve here, being the vision of your brain and work of your hands, will interpret the thought of your heart.”

Before the Scotch preacher had finished his disquisition upon the art of helve-making and its relations with all other arts, I felt like Peary discovering the Pole.

In the midst of the discourse, while I was soaring high, the Scotch preacher suddenly stopped, sat up, and struck his knee with a tremendous resounding smack.

“Spoons!” he exclaimed.

Harriet and I stopped and looked at him in astonishment.

“Spoons,” repeated Harriet.

“Spoons,” said the Scotch preacher.  “I’ve not once thought of my errand; and my wife told me to come straight home.  I’m more thoughtless every day!”

Then he turned to Harriet: 

“I’ve been sent to borrow some spoons,” he said.

“Spoons!” exclaimed Harriet.

“Spoons,” answered the Scotch preacher.  “We’ve invited friends for dinner to-morrow, and we must have spoons.”

“But why—­how—­I thought—­” began Harriet, still in astonishment.

The Scotch preacher squared around toward her and cleared his throat.

“It’s the baptisms,” he said:  “when a baby is brought for baptism, of course it must have a baptismal gift.  What is the best gift for a baby?  A spoon.  So we present it with a spoon.  To-day we discovered we had only three spoons left, and company coming.  Man, ’tis a proleefic neighbourhood.”

[Illustration:  “LET MY AXE FALL”]

He heaved a great sigh.

Harriet rushed out and made up a package.  When she came in I thought it seemed suspiciously large for spoons, but the Scotch preacher having again launched into the lore of the chopper, took it without at first perceiving anything strange.  Five minutes after we had closed the door upon him he suddenly returned holding up the package.

“This is an uncommonly heavy package,” he remarked; “did I say table-spoons?”

“Go on!” commanded Harriet; “your wife will understand.”

“All right—­good-bye again,” and his sturdy figure soon disappeared in the dark.

“The impractical man!” exclaimed Harriet.  “People impose on him.”

“What was in that package, Harriet?”

“Oh, I put in a few jars of jelly and a cake of honey.”

After a moment Harriet looked up from her work.

“Do you know the greatest sorrow of the Scotch preacher and his wife?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“They have no chick nor child of their own,” said Harriet.

It is prodigious, the amount of work required to make a good axe-helve—­I mean to make it according to one’s standard.  I had times of humorous discouragement and times of high elation when it seemed to me I could not work fast enough.  Weeks passed when I did not touch the helve but left it standing quietly in the corner.  Once or twice I took it out and walked about with it as a sort of cane, much to the secret amusement, I think, of Harriet.  At times Harriet takes a really wicked delight in her superiority.