Fred Robbins Makes His Call

In the early years of the twentieth century, one of Wilbraham’s more memorable residents was Fred Robbins, who lived in the first house on Springfield Street near Main Street, now known as 3 Springfield Street. Townspeople remembered him as a kind, earnest man with a mission. Robbins earned his living as a door-to-door peddler for the Massachusetts Bible Society, traveling the roads with religious books and an unshakable desire to save souls.

The Massachusetts Bible Society is a Christian, ecumenical organization established on July 6, 1809, during a ceremony held in the Representatives' Chamber of the Massachusetts State House. Formally incorporated on February 10, 1810, it holds the distinction of being the third-oldest Bible society in the United States.

Fred Robbins with his delivery cart. MBS archives.

For many years, his entire operation depended on a single bicycle. Rain or shine, Robbins pedaled from house to house, stopping wherever a door might open and a conversation might begin. Eventually, he upgraded to a used Rural Free Delivery mail cart drawn by what residents fondly described as a “staunch nag”, a horse that still behaved as though its youthful ambitions had not entirely faded. Together, the pair became a familiar sight along Wilbraham’s roads.

Robbins was always on the lookout for converts and never missed an opportunity to encourage church attendance. About the same time, another strong-willed character lived in town: Fred Slate. Slate’s views on religion did not align with Robbins’s enthusiasm, and he was equally well known for his fondness for alcohol. He lived in a small pink house with white trim on Tinkham Road, an accessory dwelling associated with another residence, and his reputation preceded him.

Robbins had long been aware of Slate’s habits and opinions, but for years, he seemed to be saving this particular visit for the right moment. That moment arrived on a bright June Sunday morning, with sunshine filling the sky and conviction filling Robbins’s heart. Mounting his bicycle, he pedaled toward Tinkham Road and reached the little pink house at about seven o’clock.

He walked up onto the porch and knocked once, then twice, then a third time with purpose. Moments later, a window above slid open, and a thick, sleepy voice called down, asking what anyone could possibly want so early in the morning. Robbins stepped to the edge of the porch, raised a firm finger toward the pair of bleary eyes peering out, and announced in a ringing voice, “Did you know that Jesus Christ died for you?”

For a brief pause, Slate appeared genuinely startled. Then, gathering himself, he shouted back, even louder, “Why no, when did that happen?”

What followed has been lost to time, but the exchange itself has endured. It remains a reminder that Wilbraham has always had its share of strong personalities, and that even the most serious missions can sometimes end in laughter.