Harold Olsen was a Norwegian by parentage, though born in America. Tall and straight as the pines of the Norseland, with clear, flashing blue eyes and honest, winning smile, the congregation began to love him before he was half through his first sermon. His sweet-faced little wife made friends with a dozen people between services; by nightfall the question was practically settled, and so was the Rev. Harold Olsen, “the new minister,” as he was called for years afterward.
At the beginning of the second week in December, Harold ascended the pulpit stairs of the North Penfield meeting-house, feeling very humble and very thankful in the face of his new duties. He loved his work, his people, his wife and his God; and here he was, with them all at once.
Sleigh bells jingled merrily outside the door; one family after another came trooping in, muffled to the ears, and moved demurely up the central or side aisles to their high-backed pews.
The sunlight found its way in under the old-fashioned fan-shaped blinds at the tops of the high windows, and rested upon gray hair and brown, on figures bowed with grief and age, on restless, eager children, on the pulpit itself, and finally upon the golden-edged leaves of the old Bible.
Still the people came in. A hymn was given out and sung. While Harold was lifting his soul to Heaven on the wings of his prayer, he could not help hearing the noise of heavy boots in the meeting-house entry, stamping the snow. His fervent “Amen” was the signal for a draft of cold air from the doors, followed by a dozen late comers.
After the sermon, which was so simple and straightforward that it went directly to the hearts of the people, he was eager to confer with his deacons for a few minutes.
“The bell didn’t ring this morning, Brother Fairweather. What was the matter?” he asked, after a warm hand-grasp all round.
“Why, the fact is, sir, there ain’t no bell.”
“That is, none to speak of,” put in Deacon Stimpson apologetically. “There’s a bell up there, but it got so cracked an’ out o’ tune that nobody could stan’ it, sick or well.”