“Let me catch you pressin’ the key agin to-night, you young villain, if you think it is best.”
“I shall press as many keys as I am a minter for all you. You’re always findin’ fault with sunthin’ or other,” muttered he.
Betsey Bobbet and Sophronia Gowdey was lookin’ at each other all this time with looks that made one’s blood run cold in thier vains.
Mr. Peedick commenced the tune, but unfortunately struck into short metre. They all commenced loud and strong, but couldn’t get any further than “How sweet for bretherin.” As they all come to a sudden halt there in front of that word—Mr. Gowdey—lookin’ daggers at Mr. Peedick—took out his pitch fork, as if it was a pistol, and he was goin’ to shoot him with it, but applyin’ it to his own ear, he started off on the longest metre that had ever been in our neighborhood. After addin’ the tune to the words, there was so much tune to carry, that the best calculator in tunes couldn’t do it.
At that very minute when it looked dark, and gloomy indeed for the quire, an old lady, the best behaved in the quire, who had minded her own business, and chawed caraway peacefully, come out and started it to the tune of “Oh that will be joyful.”
They all joined in at the top of their voice, and though they each one put in flats and sharps to suit thier own taste, they kinder hung together till they got to the chorus, and then Mr. Gowdey looked round and frowned fiercely at Shakespeare Bobbet who seemed to be flattin’ most of any of ’em, and Betsey Bobbet punched Sophronia Gowdey in the side with her parasol, and told her she was “disgracin’ the quire—and to sing slower,” and then they all yelled
How sweet is unitee—e
How sweet is unitee,
How sweet for bretheren to agree,
How sweet is unitee.