Read Online Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel by Ruth Glover - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Glover
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their dead, baptized their believers.
At times revival meetings were announced, and emotion ran high, stirring dry-as-dust spirits and warming the hungry hearts of those needing the strength, the encouragement, the peace offered. Attendance was good; the warning against sin and unrighteousness was powerful, the invitation to turn from such ways was fervent. The Church of England, more formal, popular in larger cities, was not widely popular on the frontier. The rugged, the real, the tried—that was what satisfied.
Education and religion went hand in hand; schools invariably sprang up where churches went. It was a Methodist minister who set into operation a province-wide system of government-controlled primary education. The new Canadians were serious about education; even those whose broken English kept them tongue-tied managed to make themselves understood: There should be schools for the children.
Schools and churches often shared the same building. This was true of the hamlet and community called Bliss.
Bliss was named to honor the first settler in the area, George Bliss; by and large, the people of Bliss were satisfied with it. “What’s in a name?” Herkimer Pinkard had been known to quote philosophically whenever the subject came up, adding,“That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”
With no dissenting voice across those first years and no better suggestion, in time “Bliss” became the name of the schoolhouse. And when the church was established, the name seemed particularly suitable, the worshipers maintained.
George Bliss himself had drawn together the first circle of believers. They met in his home, eventually outgrowing that and welcoming the opportunity to conduct services in the schoolhouse. Having become a real congregation, a real church, they contacted a Bible school in the East for a pastor.
Parker Jones was that man.
And to think, he sometimes marveled, that it was here, back of beyond and far, far from the madding crowd, he had met the one girl in the world for him. Walking into the Morrison home, the first place he was to board—the initial arrangement the church had made for a pastor—he had walked directly into Molly herself. And heaven’s gate, and—bliss.
Molly Morrison was a treasure. Vibrant, full of life and love she was, slender as a willow withe, with black hair that tumbled in lively disarray around a face both angelic and magical. Best of all, Molly loved the Lord and loved Him best of all. This arrangement—with him, Parker, being second best—was satisfactory with Parker Jones.
The coffee was burbling, filling the air with fragrance, when the first rig pulled into the yard. Before Parker had welcomed his prospective father-in-law, Angus Morrison, a man of tremendous standing in the community and a worthy father of the matchless Molly, Herkimer Pinkard arrived. Herkimer of the wild orange beard and a gift of coming up with quotations, jokes, bits of choice wisdom or humor from the inspirational to the downright ridiculous. A bachelor, if he wanted a wife, Herkimer had not been able to find one among the few, very few females available on the frontier. “He scares them off or they die laughing” was the opinion of Bliss’s sympathetic populace. Everyone loved him; no one wanted to marry him.Herkimer managed very well by himself and never complained of his single state.
Stomping the snow from his boots on the porch, coming into the house through the door Parker held open for him, Angus greeted his pastor warmly and handed him a box, his blue Scottish eyes twinkling in his rugged face.
“From the womenfolk of my hoosehold,” he explained unnecessarily, and suddenly Parker’s supper took on possibilities: The fragrance of roast beef wafted enticingly into the room.
“Lift oot the pan and set it in the oven, laddie,” Angus directed. “Those’re the instructions given me. When you’re ready to eat, supper’ll be ready and
At times revival meetings were announced, and emotion ran high, stirring dry-as-dust spirits and warming the hungry hearts of those needing the strength, the encouragement, the peace offered. Attendance was good; the warning against sin and unrighteousness was powerful, the invitation to turn from such ways was fervent. The Church of England, more formal, popular in larger cities, was not widely popular on the frontier. The rugged, the real, the tried—that was what satisfied.
Education and religion went hand in hand; schools invariably sprang up where churches went. It was a Methodist minister who set into operation a province-wide system of government-controlled primary education. The new Canadians were serious about education; even those whose broken English kept them tongue-tied managed to make themselves understood: There should be schools for the children.
Schools and churches often shared the same building. This was true of the hamlet and community called Bliss.
Bliss was named to honor the first settler in the area, George Bliss; by and large, the people of Bliss were satisfied with it. “What’s in a name?” Herkimer Pinkard had been known to quote philosophically whenever the subject came up, adding,“That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.”
With no dissenting voice across those first years and no better suggestion, in time “Bliss” became the name of the schoolhouse. And when the church was established, the name seemed particularly suitable, the worshipers maintained.
George Bliss himself had drawn together the first circle of believers. They met in his home, eventually outgrowing that and welcoming the opportunity to conduct services in the schoolhouse. Having become a real congregation, a real church, they contacted a Bible school in the East for a pastor.
Parker Jones was that man.
And to think, he sometimes marveled, that it was here, back of beyond and far, far from the madding crowd, he had met the one girl in the world for him. Walking into the Morrison home, the first place he was to board—the initial arrangement the church had made for a pastor—he had walked directly into Molly herself. And heaven’s gate, and—bliss.
Molly Morrison was a treasure. Vibrant, full of life and love she was, slender as a willow withe, with black hair that tumbled in lively disarray around a face both angelic and magical. Best of all, Molly loved the Lord and loved Him best of all. This arrangement—with him, Parker, being second best—was satisfactory with Parker Jones.
The coffee was burbling, filling the air with fragrance, when the first rig pulled into the yard. Before Parker had welcomed his prospective father-in-law, Angus Morrison, a man of tremendous standing in the community and a worthy father of the matchless Molly, Herkimer Pinkard arrived. Herkimer of the wild orange beard and a gift of coming up with quotations, jokes, bits of choice wisdom or humor from the inspirational to the downright ridiculous. A bachelor, if he wanted a wife, Herkimer had not been able to find one among the few, very few females available on the frontier. “He scares them off or they die laughing” was the opinion of Bliss’s sympathetic populace. Everyone loved him; no one wanted to marry him.Herkimer managed very well by himself and never complained of his single state.
Stomping the snow from his boots on the porch, coming into the house through the door Parker held open for him, Angus greeted his pastor warmly and handed him a box, his blue Scottish eyes twinkling in his rugged face.
“From the womenfolk of my hoosehold,” he explained unnecessarily, and suddenly Parker’s supper took on possibilities: The fragrance of roast beef wafted enticingly into the room.
“Lift oot the pan and set it in the oven, laddie,” Angus directed. “Those’re the instructions given me. When you’re ready to eat, supper’ll be ready and
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