The singing has a charm for you. There is a long, thin-faced, flax-haired man, who carries a tuning-fork in his waistcoat pocket, and who leads the choir. His position is in the very front rank of gallery benches, facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman has read two verses of the psalm, the country chorister turns around to his little group of aids—consisting of the blacksmith, a carroty headed school-master, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in a pink bonnet, somewhat inclined to frivolity,—to announce the tune.
“FAT OLD LADIES IN IRON SPECTACLES”
This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts his long music-book,—glances again at his little company, clears his throat by a powerful “Ahem,” followed by a powerful use of a bandanna pocket-handkerchief,—draws out his tuning fork, and waits for the parson to close his reading. He now reviews once more his company,—throws a reproving glance at the young woman in the pink hat, who at the moment is biting off a stout bunch of fennel,—lifts his music-book, thumps upon the rail with his fork, listens keenly, gives a slight “Ahem,” falls into the cadence,—swells into a strong crescendo,—catches at the first word of the line, as if he were afraid it might get away,—turns to his company,—lifts his music-book with spirit,—gives it a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and, with a majestic toss of the head, soars away, with half the women below straggling on in his wake, into some such brave old melody as—Litchfield!
THE DEACON
Being a visitor, and in the Squire’s pew, you are naturally an object of considerable attention to the girls about your age; as well as to a great many fat old ladies in iron spectacles, who mortify you excessively by patting you under the chin after church; and insist upon mistaking you for Frank; and force upon you very dry cookies, spiced with caraway seeds.
“IN TONES OF TENDER ADMONITION”
