“But these preachers use such highfalutin' language, and so many 'firstlies' and 'secondlies' I lose my hold on the text.”
“Mr. Gay is a common, everyday sort of man, does not pose when out of his pulpit, and never talks over the heads of his audience.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I sit with him at table, and I've studied him. Then he told us not to expect a city sermon for he used simple language, and they have congregational singing.”
“Well, I'll go—this once,” said Uncle Ike, and Quincy assisted him in making his preparations. On their way to the church they passed two couples—Alice and Mrs. Hawkins, and Maude and Mr. Merry. Mr. Jonas Hawkins could not leave home for he was afraid the cats would carry off his last brood of chickens. Some fifty had been hatched out, but only a dozen had survived the hot weather, heavy rains, and the many diseases prevalent among chickens.
When Mr. Gay arose to give out the first hymn, Maude said to Mr. Merry, “Why, he looks like a different man. His red hair is a beautiful brown.”
“It's the light from the coloured glass windows,” commented Mr. Merry.
“Then it must be the curtains in Mrs. Hawkins' dining room that colour his hair at home,” retorted Maude.
How grandly rose the volume of tone from scores of throats! Even Uncle Ike's quavering voice joined in.
“All hail the power of Jesus' name,
Let nations prostrate fall;
Bring forth the royal diadem,
And crown Him Lord of all.”