Instantly I switched into “Marching Through Georgia,” and began to nod my head and tap my toe in the liveliest fashion. Presently one boy climbed up on the fence, then another, then a third. I continued to play. The fourth boy, a little chap, ventured to climb up on the fence.
They were bright-faced, tow-headed lads, all in Sunday clothes.
“It's hard luck,” said I, taking my whistle from my lips, “to have to wear shoes and stockings on a warm Sunday like this.”
“You bet it is!” said the bold leader.
“In that case,” said I, “I will play 'Yankee Doodle.'”
I played. All the boys, including the little chap, came up around me, and two of them sat down quite familiarly on the grass. I never had a more devoted audience. I don't know what interesting event might have happened next, for the bold leader, who stood nearest, was becoming dangerously inflated with questions—I don't know what might have happened had we not been interrupted by the appearance of a Spectre in Black. It appeared before us there in the broad daylight in the middle of a sunny afternoon while we were playing “Yankee Doodle.” First I saw the top of a black hat rising over the rim of the hill. This was followed quickly by a black tie, a long black coat, black trousers, and, finally, black shoes. I admit I was shaken, but being a person of iron nerve in facing such phenomena, I continued to play “Yankee Doodle.” In spite of this counter-attraction, toward which all four boys turned uneasy glances, I held my audience. The Black Spectre, with a black book under its arm, drew nearer. Still I continued to play and nod my head and tap my toe. I felt like some modern Pied Piper piping away the children of these modern hills—piping them away from older people who could not understand them.
I could see an accusing look on the Spectre's face. I don't know what put it into my head, and I had no sooner said it than I was sorry for my levity, but the figure with the sad garments there in the matchless and triumphant spring day affected me with a curious, sharp impatience. Had any one the right to look out so dolefully upon such a day and such a scene of simple happiness as this? So I took my whistle from my lips and asked:
“Is God dead?”
I shall never forget the indescribable look of horror and astonishment that swept over the young man's face.
“What do you mean, sir?” he asked with an air of stern authority which surprised me. His calling for the moment lifted him above himself: it was the Church which spoke.