"You will have to confirm your words by examples again, Lois," said
Mrs. Barclay. "We do not all know hymn literature as well as you do."
"I never saw anything of all that in hymns," said Mrs. Lenox. "They always sound a little, to me, like dirges."
Lois hesitated. The cart was plodding along through the smooth lanes at the rate of less than a mile an hour, the oxen swaying from side to side with their slow, patient steps. The level country around lay sleepily still under the hot afternoon sun; it was rarely that any human stir was to be seen, save only the ox driver walking beside the cart. He walked beside the cart, not the oxen; evidently lending a curious ear to what was spoken in the company; on which account also the progress of the vehicle was a little less lively than it might have been.
"My Cynthy's writ a lot o' hymns," he remarked just here. "I never heerd no trumpets in 'em, though. I don' know what them other things is."
"Cymbals?" said Lois. "They are round, thin plates of metal, Mr. Sears, with handles on one side to hold them by; and the player clashes them together, at certain parts of the music—as you would slap the palms of your hands."
"Doos, hey? I want to know! And what doos they sound like?"
"I can't tell," said Lois. "They sound shrill, and sweet, and gay."
"But that's cur'ous sort o' church music!" said the farmer.
"Now, Miss Lothrop,—you must let us hear the figurative cymbals," Mr.
Lenox reminded her.
"Do!" said Mrs. Barclay.