O, I can't afford it, Harry," said John Hale, the rich farmer, when his wide-a-wake grandson asked him to give to the cause of foreign missions. At this short answer, Harry was grieved and indignant.

"But the poor heathen!" he replied; isn't it too bad that they cannot have churches, and school-houses, and books? 

"What do you know about the heathen?" exclaimed the old man. “Would you wish me to give away my hard earnings? I tell you I cannot afford it."

But Harry was well posted in missionary intelligence, and, day after day, puzzled his curly head with plans for obtaining money for the noble; cause. One day he said: 

"Grandpa, if you do not feel able to give money to the missionary cause, will you give a potato?"

"A potato!" ejaculated Mr. Hale, looking up from his paper.

"Yes, sir; and land enough to plant it in, and what it produces for four years?"

"Oh, yes!" replied the unsuspecting grand-parent, settling his glasses on his calculating nose in a way that showed he was glad to escape on such cheap terms. Harry planted the potato. The first year it rewarded him by producing thirteen; these, the following season, became a peck; the next, seven bushels and a half; and when the fourth harvest came, lo! the potato had increased to seventy bushels, which were sold and the money put into the Lord's treasury. And the farmer exclaimed: 

"Why, Harry, I did not feel that donation in the least! I've been thinking that if there was a little missionary like you in every house, a large sum would be gathered, and the word of God could be preached 'unto the uttermost parts of the earth.'"