The audience arose and sang the first stanza of the national hymn with gusto, but in the second stanza very few were singing the words, and in the third they gave up humming the air, and only Laura and Mr. Buck, who had books, were left singing.
"It's like the Peterkins and the Declaration of Independence," whispered Ralph, and Bob nudged him joyfully.
"I will sing for you a hymn I wrote myself for this day," announced Laura, seating herself at the organ.
The air had seemed to her when she was practicing it, sublime; now, heard with the consciousness of less partial ears, it developed a lack of variety, and the accompaniment left much to be desired. More than that, in spite of her daily practice on that organ, now, in the excitement of giving her composition to the public, Laura sometimes forgot to pump, and what accompaniment there was went off into a feeble squeak.
The audience behaved beautifully; it sat solemnly listening, believing that the tenants of the Ark, through their youthful representative, were trying to entertain it, and it politely tried to look entertained.
But somehow, probably through Rose Gruber, it began to be whispered about that the elder Scollards had nothing to do with the present occasion, and the attitude of the audience became less respectful.
When Laura came forward and recited an original poem, however, her hearers veered again towards respect for her. They were not critical; the lines rhymed; it seemed to them very wonderful that a girl scarcely in her 'teens could write rhymes, and Laura was applauded heartily.
But when she returned to music, and especially when she prefaced her next number by the information that she had taken pity on Crestville's darkness, the village people altered their minds about Laura and were ready to poke fun at whatever she might do. There was no doubt that there was plenty of chance for ridicule. The foolish little girl began a song of Gottschalk's—and broke down. Then, nothing daunted, she essayed a solo on the organ, forgot to pump, lost her place, remembered to pump, but forgot her fingers, struck false notes, and ended by knocking her music off the rack with such force that a whole snarl of keys growled at once, and an irreverent boy in the audience cried: "Sic 'em! Catch 'em, Towse!" to the indecorous delight of all around him.
"I am not used to parlor organs," said Laura with tearful dignity and purpling face.
"Only to hand organs?" inquired someone in the audience, and a woman's voice said: