Part II

The Reading-Club.

THE DRUMMER’S BETROTHED.

“Douce est la morte qui vient en bien aimant.”

JOHN LELAND’S EXAMINATION.

Up on the heights in the Old Dominion, where the houses are few, and many of the mountaineers know little of the settlements below, a man of God lived who took to preaching the gospel in his own rude way. He was a man of strong character and clear common sense. He could just read the Bible—that was all; but he got at the heart of things as his ministry showed, and drew near to the heart of his Master. He was a very plain preacher, a most careless and unguarded man. He told the people the truth without any apologies, with all kindness and tenderness of heart. Many were turned from sin unto righteousness; and the presbytery, in whose bounds his work was, determined to ordain him, simply on the ground of his efficiency and clear call to the ministry, though he had no education. He objected. They persisted. Finally the day was appointed, and a large company from the mountains and the valleys below gathered to witness the examination for licensing and ordination of this strange character. All knew that there would be something entertaining in his answers. The presbytery assembled, the congregation looking on. John Leland took his place in front, dropping his head into his hands. The moderator simply stated the object of the meeting, addressing Mr. Leland. The latter looked up and said,—

“Mr. Moderator, I’ll tell you all I know. It won’t take long,” and down his head went into his hands again. A smile went around the assembly.

Moderator. Mr. Leland, do you believe that God had a people, chosen and elect before the foundations of the world?

Leland. I don’t know what God was doin’ before he made the world. Don’t know any thin’ about it. I a’n’t a educated man.

Moderator. Yes, but you must understand me. You certainly believe that God had a people chosen and elect from all eternity?

Leland. No. I don’t believe that. They couldn’t a’ been our kind o’ folks, anyway; because ours are made out of the dust of the earth, you know.

Moderator. Mr. Leland, we have heard of your Christian life, of your efficiency and your success, and we are met to ordain you to the ministry of the gospel. This is a solemn occasion, and you must not make light of the questions. Now, I want to know if you believe in the total depravity of mankind?

Leland. No, I don’t, if you mean by that that men are as bad as they can be; for the Devil a’n’t any worse’n that, you know.

Moderator. Do you believe in imputed righteousness, and that it is sufficient to save all who have faith?

Leland. I don’t know any righteousness that will save a man who won’t do right himself.

Moderator. Do you believe in the final perseverance of the saints?

Leland. I don’t know what that means.

Moderator. Well, you believe that all who are converted will be kept, and not fall away?

Leland. Oh, I don’t know how it is down in the settlements, among the educated; but I tell you up where we live, we have the awfulest cases of backsliding.

Moderator. But, Mr. Leland, you certainly believe that when a man is converted he will be kept in some way, and finally saved?

Leland. I cannot tell much about that, till I am saved myself. Don’t know any thing about it now.

Moderator. You feel that you are called to preach the gospel?

Leland. No, I never heard any one call me.

Moderator. We do not mean that you heard a voice—any thing said—but that you are called.

Leland. Well, Mr. Moderator, if there wasn’t any voice, or any thing said, don’t know how there could be any call. Never heard any.

Moderator. You believe it is your duty to preach the gospel to all creatures?

Leland. No. I don’t believe it my duty to preach to the Dutch, for instance. I can’t talk Dutch. If the Lord wanted me to preach to them, in some way I could talk Dutch; but I can’t, I never tried.

Moderator. Mr. Leland, you certainly desire to see all men come to repentance, and turn to righteousness. Your acts show that. We have heard of your self-sacrificing spirit, your love for mankind, and all your good works to win sinners to the gospel and repentance.

Leland. Mr. Moderator, I’ll tell you the honest truth. I am a little ashamed of it; but it is God’s truth just as I tell you. Some days I do feel that way; and then again, some of them act so bad, I don’t care if the Devil gets half of them.

After the presbytery had retired to take counsel over the matter, they returned and announced that while his answers had not been entirely satisfactory in every respect, nevertheless, in view of his efficiency in preaching, they had voted to ordain him, which they proceeded to do in the usual manner. After it was over, Mr. Leland lifted his head out of his hands, straightened himself up, and stood his full height. Looking first at the moderator, and then all round him, he said,—

“Brethren, I’ve put you to a heap o’ trouble. I don’t know any thin’ about your doctrines, ’n’ I told you I didn’t. I’ve been doin’ the best I could, preachin’ the gospel as I found it in the Bible. Now, you see, I don’t know any thing else. Another thing: when the apostles put their hands on a man’s head, I read that the man had some power, or some sense, or some knowledge, that he hadn’t afore. But now, brethren, honest and true, right out, you’ve all had your hands on me, and I am just as big a fool as ever I was. But I thank you, nevertheless: I’m very much obleeged to you.”

And so they let him go.

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

AT THE RISING OF THE MOON.

THE SADDEST SIGHT.

NEBULOUS PHILOSOPHY.

AT ARLINGTON.

A LAUGHING PHILOSOPHER.

Admiring my flowers, sir? P’raps you’d step inside the gate, and walk round my little place? It ain’t big, but there’s plenty of variety,—violets and cabbages, roses and artichokes. Any one that didn’t care for flowers ’ud be sure to find beauty in them young spring onions. People’s ideas differ very much, there ain’t a doubt of it. One man’s very happy over a glass of whiskey and water, and another thinks every thing ’ud go straight in this ’ere world if we all drank tea and lemonade. And it’s right enough: it keeps things even. We should have the world a very one-sided affair if everybody pulled the same way. Philosopher, am I? Well, I dunno. I’ve got a theory to be sure—every one has nowadays; and mine is, that there is a joke to be found in every mortal thing if only we look in the right place for it. But some people don’t know how to look for it. Why, sir, if you’ll believe it, I was talking to a man yesterday that couldn’t see any thing to laugh at in the naval demonstration.

Am I independent? Well, I makes money by my fruit and vegetables, if that’s what you mean. But there’s so many ways of being independent. One man marries a woman with £20,000 a year, and calls that independence. Another votes on the strongest side, and calls that being independent. One takes up every new-fangled idea that comes out, and says he’s independent. Some calls impudence independence. There’s not a name as fits so many different articles. No! I’ve never bin married. Somehow, I don’t think married men see the fun in every thing same as single ones. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to the ladies, but I do think they enjoy a good cry more than a good laugh. Was I ever in love? and did I laugh then? Why, yes, never laughed heartier in my life. It’s a good many years ago now. I was living in lodgings down Clerkenwell way, and the landlady’s daughter was as pretty a creature as ever you see, bright and cheery, like a robin, when first I knew her. But, by and by, she grew pale and peaky,—used to go about the house without singing, and had such big, sad-looking eyes. Her home wasn’t a particularly happy one, for her mother was a nagger. Perhaps you’ve never come across a woman of that pertikler character. Well, then, you should say double the prayers of ordinary people; for you’ve much to be thankful for. I never looked at her without feeling that her husband must have been very happy indeed when he got to heaven. I sometimes think, sir, that women of this sort might be made use of, and prisons, and all other kind of punishment, done away with: perhaps, though, the lunatic asylums ’ud get too full.

Well, I grew to be quite intimate with Bessie; and one evening, I don’t know how it was, she told me all her troubles. She was engaged to a young man; and her mother wouldn’t consent to them marrying, and was always worrying her to break it off. I asked her if there were any thing against him. Nothing, except that her mother had taken a dislike to him: he wasn’t very strong, but he was the best, cleverest, dearest fellow that ever lived. All the time she was talking I felt a gnawing sort of pain somewhere in my inside. First, I thought I must be hungry; but, when I came to eat, all my food seemed to get in my throat, and stick there. This won’t do, old fellow, thinks I: there must be a joke to be got out of it somewhere. So I set to consider; and there, clear enough, it was. Why, the joke ’ud be to let Bessie marry her young man, and see the pretty cheeks grow round and pink again. But how to do it, there was the rub. I began to cultivate the old lady’s society with a view to finding out her weak point: for, being a woman, of course she had a weak point; and, being a very ugly woman, what do you think it was? Why, vanity, to be sure. I soon noticed a change in her. She took her hair out of paper every day, instead of only on Sundays, as she had been used to do; and she put on a clean cap sometimes, and smirked whenever I passed her. Why, here’s a bigger joke than I bargained for, thinks I! While I’ve been studying the woman to find out her weak point, she thinks I’ve been admiring her. But I soon saw what use I could make of this. I went down into the kitchen when she wasn’t busy,—I knew it would be rather too hot other times,—and I got talking about Bessie. “It’s strange,” I says, “that a fine-looking girl like that shouldn’t have a sweetheart. Things was different when you was younger, I’ll be bound.”

“As for that,” says she, “Bessie has a sweetheart; but I don’t approve of him. He’s not exactly the sort of man I expected for her.”

“But, lor’,” I says, “you wouldn’t go and keep that girl single! Think what harm you may do yourself. You can’t be so cruel as to give up all idea of marrying agin! Why, you don’t look forty.” That wasn’t an untruth, for she looked fifty. She tossed her head, and told me to go along. I didn’t go along. I says, “There’s no doubt lots of young fellows ’ud be glad enough of a good-looking wife like you, but mightn’t care for a daughter as old as Miss Bessie.” This seemed to strike her very much. I followed it up, got talking to her day after day, and always led the conversation to the same point. At last one day when I came home from work, she says, “It’s all settled. Bessie’s going to be married, and her Tom’s coming here this evening.” Then I went up to my own room, and laughed till I cried. Presently I heard the little girl run up-stairs as she hadn’t run for many a long day, and I knew she’d gone to put on a smart ribbon for Tom’s sake. She tapped at my door as she passed. Would I come down? somebody was there, and wanted to know me. I called out that I was busy, and couldn’t come; and she went away. But after about an hour she came again. I was sitting in the dark, thinking of a good many things; and before I had time to speak she was down on her knees beside me, and hiding her face.

“You told me you were busy,” she said; “and here you are all in the dark and cold, and I can’t bear any one to be dull or lonely to-night, because I’m so very, very happy. And I know it’s all through you. Mother would never have given in of her own accord. You’ve always been my friend when I wanted one very badly; and now you must be angry with me, or you wouldn’t stay away to-night. And you won’t even speak to me. Oh, whatever I’ve done to vex you, don’t think of it any more!”

She nestled up to me so close that her hair touched my coat-sleeve, and her pretty eyes looked up all swimming with tears. I ground my teeth, and clinched my hands, or—or I don’t know what I mightn’t ha’ done. You see the joke of this, sir, don’t you? Here was the girl crying, and asking me to forgive her, and like her a little; and there was I—not disliking her a bit all the time. Ha, ha, ha! I had a hearty laugh at her, and hurried with her down-stairs, and was introduced to Tom, and I talked to the old lady, and drank the young people’s health, and was as happy as possible. And on the wedding-day I gave her away as if I had been her father; and I sang a song and danced: and, when the time came for Bessie to go away with her husband, I dried her eyes; for at the last moment the tender-hearted little thing broke down, and cried, and kissed us all, and asked her mother not to feel angry with her for leaving her all alone; and then the mother cried, and what with having so many eyes to wipe, I found myself wiping my own just as if it all weren’t a tremendous joke.

How have they got on since? ’Bout as well as most people, I suppose; she loves him, and takes care of him. And the mother’s softened down a bit since she’s bin a grandmother. And as to my godson, there never was such a boy. I have him with me as much as possible, and he’s beginning to see the joke of every thing almost as much as I do myself. And when I die, all this little place’ll belong to him, and he’ll be a rich man: so my death’ll be the biggest joke of all, you see, sir.

THE SONG OF THE DRUM.

THE BRAVEST BOY IN TOWN.

BRER RABBIT AND THE BUTTER.

“De anemules an’ de beastesses,” said Uncle Remus, shaking his coffee around in the bottom of his tin cup, in order to gather up all the sugar, “dey kep’ on gettin’ mo’ and mo’ familious wid wunner nudder, twel bimeby, ’twant long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox, en Brer Possum got ter sorter bunchin’ der perwishions tergedder in de same house. Arter while de roof sorter ’gun ter leak, en one day Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox, en Brer Possum ’semble fer ter see ef dey couldn’t kinder patch her up. Dey had a big day’s wuk in front un um, en den dey fotch der dinner wid um. Dey lumped de vittles up in one pile, en de butter w’at Brer Fox brung dey goes en puts in de spring-house fer ter keep cool, en den dey wen’ ter wuk, en ’twan’t long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit’s stummuck ’gun ter sorter growl en pester ’im. Dat butter of Brer Fox’s sot heavy on his mine, en his mouf water eve’y time he ’member ’bout it. Presen’ly he say ter hisself dat he bleedzd ter have a nip at dat butter, en den he lay his plans, he did. Fus news you know, w’ile dey was all wukkin’ ’long, Brer Rabbit raise his head quick en fling his years forred en holler out,—

“‘Here I is. W’at you want wid me?’ en off he went like sump’n wuz arter ’im.

“He sailed ’roun’, old Brer Rabbit did, en arter he make sho dat nobody ain’t foller’n ’im, inter de spring-’ouse he bounces, en dar he stays twel he git a bait er butter. Den he santer on back en go to wuk.

“‘Whar you bin?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘I hear my chilluns callin’ me,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ’en I hatter go see w’at dey want. My ole ’oman done gone en tuck mighty sick,’ sezee.

“Dey wuk on twel bimeby de butter tas’e so good dat ole Brer Rabbit want some mo’. Den he raise up his head, he did, en holler out,—

“‘Heyo! Wait! I’m a comin’!’ en off he put.

“Dis time he stay right smart while, en w’en he git back Brer Fox ax him whar he bin.

“‘I bin ter see my ole ’oman, en she’s a sinkin’,’ sezee.

“Dreckly Brer Rabbit hear um callin’ ’im ag’in, en off he goes, en dis time, bless yo’ soul, he gets de butter out so clear dat he kin see hisse’f in de bottom er de bucket. He scrape it clean en lick it dry, en den he go back ter wuk lookin’ mo’ samer den a nigger w’at de patter-rollers bin had holt up.

“‘How’s yo’ ole ’oman dis time?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘I’m oblije ter you, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but I’m fear’d she’s done gone by, now,’ en dat sorter make Brer Fox en Brer Possum feel in moanin’ wid Brer Rabbit.

“Bimeby, w’en dinner-time come, dey all got out der vittles, but Brer Rabbit keep on lookin’ lonesome, en Brer Fox and Brer Possum, dey sorter rustle ’roun’ for ter see ef dey can’t make Brer Rabbit feel sorter splimmy.”

“What is that, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

“Sorter splannny, honey—sorter like he’s in a crowd—sorter like his ole ’oman ain’t dead ez she mout be. You know how fokes duz w’en dey gits whar people’s a moanin’.”

The little boy didn’t know, fortunately for him, and Uncle Remus went on,—

“Brer Fox and Brer Possum rustle roun’, dey did, gittin’ out de vittles, en bimeby Brer Fox say, sezee,—

“‘Brer Possum, you run down to de spring en fetch de butter, en I’ll sail ’roun’ yer en set de table,’ sezee.

“Brer Possum he lope off arter de butter, en dreckly here he comes lopin’ back, wid his years a trimblin’, en his tongue a hangin’ out. Brer Fox, he holler out,—

“‘W’at de matter now, Brer Possum?’ sezee.

“‘You all better run yer, fokes,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘De las’ drap er dat butter done gone.’

“‘Whar she gone?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

“‘Look like she dried up,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee.

“Den Brer Rabbit he look sorter wise, he did, en he up’n say, sezee,—

“‘I speck dat butter melt in somebody’s mouf,’ sezee.

“Den dey went down ter de spring wid Brer Possum, en sho ’nuff de butter wuz gone. W’ile dey was sputin’ over der wunderment, Brer Rabbit say he see tracks all ’roun’ dar, en he p’int out dat ef dey’ll all go ter sleep, he kin ketch de chap w’at stole de butter. Den dey all lie down, en Brer Fox en Brer Possum dey soon drapt off ter sleep; but Brer Rabbit he stay ’wake, en w’en de time come, he raise up easy en smear Brer Possum’s mouf wid de butter on his paws, en den he run off en nibble up de bes’ er de dinner w’at dey lef’ layin’ out, en den he come back en wake up Brer Fox, en show ’im de butter on Brer Possum’s mouf. Den dey wake Brer Possum up, en tell ’im about it; but c’ose Brer Possum ’ny it to de las’. Brer Fox, dough, he’s a kinder lawyer, en he argafy dis way,—dat Brer Possum wuz de fus one at de butter, en de fus one fer ter miss it, en, mo’n dat, dar hung de signs on his mouf. Brer Possum see dat dey got ’im jammed up in a cornder, en den he up en say dat de way fer ter ketch de man w’at stole de butter is ter bil’ a big bresh-heap en set her afier, en all hands try ter jump over, en de one w’at fall in, den he de chap w’at stole de butter. Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox dey bofe ’gree, dey did; en dey whirl in en b’il’ de bresh-heap, en dey b’il’ her high, en dey b’il’ her wide, en den dey totch her off. W’en she got ter blazin’ up good, Brer Rabbit he tuck de fus turn. He sorter step back, look ’roun’ en giggle, en over he went mo’ samer den a bird fly in’. Den come Brer Fox. He got back little fudder, en spit on his han’s, en den lit out en made de jump, en he come so nigh gettin’ in dat de een’ er his tail kotch afier. Ain’t you never see no fox, honey?” inquired Uncle Remus in a tone that implied both conciliation and information.

The little boy thought probably he had, but he wouldn’t commit himself.

“Well, den,” continued the old man, “nex’ time you see one un um, you look right close en see ef de een’ er his tail ain’t white. Hit’s des like I tell you. Dey b’ars de skyar er dat bresh-heap down ter dis day. Dey er marked—dat’s w’at dey is—dey er marked.”

“And what about Brother Possum?” asked the boy.

“Old Brer Possum, he tuck a runnin’ start, he did, en he come lumberin’ ’long, en he hit—ker blam!—right in de middle er de fier, en dat waz de las’ er old Brer Possum.”

“But, Uncle Remus, Brother Possum didn’t steal the butter after all,” said the little boy, who was not at all satisfied with such summary injustice.

“Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz, honey. In dis worrul, lots er folks is gotter souffer fer udder folkes’ sins. Look like hit’s mighty on wrong; but hit’s des dat a way. Tribbalashun seem like she’s a waitin’ roun’ de cornder fer ter ketch one en all un us, honey.”

Harris.

THE LOVES OF A LIFE.

Love! Love is the flight of the soul towards God, towards the great, the sublime, and the beautiful, which are the shadow of God upon earth. Love your family, the partner of your life, those around you ready to share your joys and sorrows, the dead who were dear to you, and to whom you were dear. But let your love be the love taught you by Dante and by us,—the love of souls that aspire together, and do not grovel on the earth in search of a felicity which is not the destiny of the creature here to reach; do not yield to a delusion which inevitably would degrade you into egotism. To love, is to promise, and to receive a promise for the future. God has given us love, that the weary soul may give and receive support upon the way of life. It is a flower which springs up on the path of duty, but which cannot change its course. Purify, strengthen, and improve yourselves by loving. Ever act—even at the price of increasing her earthly trials—so that the sister soul united to your own may never need, here or elsewhere, to blush through you or for you. The time will come when from the height of a new life, embracing the whole past and comprehending its secret, you will smile together at the sorrows you have endured, the trials you have overcome.

Love your country. Your country is the land where your parents sleep, where is spoken that language in which the chosen of your heart, blushing, whispered the first word of love; it is the house that God has given you, that, by striving to perfect yourselves therein, you may prepare to ascend to him. It is your name, your glory, your sign among the peoples. Give to it your thought, your counsel, your blood. Raise it up, great and beautiful, as foretold by our great men. And see that you leave it uncontaminated by any trace of falsehood, or of servitude, unprofaned by dismemberment. Let it be one, as the thought of God. You are twenty-four millions of men, endowed with active, splendid faculties, with a tradition of glory the envy of the nations of Europe; an immense future is before you, your eyes are raised to the loveliest heaven, and around you smiles the loveliest land in Europe; you are encircled by the Alps and the sea, boundaries marked out by the finger of God for a people of giants. And you must be such, or nothing. Let not a man of that twenty-four millions remain excluded from the fraternal bond which shall join you together; let not a look be raised to that heaven, which is not that of a free man. Let Rome be the ark of your redemption, the temple of your nation. Has she not twice been the temple of the destinies of Europe? In Rome two extinct worlds, the Pagan and the Papal, meet each other like the double jewels of a diadem; and you must draw from thence a third world, greater than the other two. From Rome, the Holy City, the City of Love (Amor), the purest and wisest among you, elected by the vote, and strengthened by the inspiration, of a whole people, shall give forth the pact that shall unite us in one, and represent us in the future alliance of the peoples. Until then you have no country, or you have it contaminated.

Love humanity. You can only ascertain your own mission from the aim placed by God before humanity at large. God has given you your country as cradle, humanity as mother, and you can only love your brethren of the cradle in loving your common mother. Beyond the Alps, beyond the sea, are other peoples, now fighting, or preparing to fight, the holy fight of independence, of nationality, of liberty: other peoples striving by different routes to reach the same goal,—improvement, association, and the foundation of an authority which shall put an end to moral anarchy, and link again earth to heaven, and which mankind may love and obey without remorse or shame. Unite with them, they will unite with you. Do not invoke their aid where your single arm can suffice to conquer; but say to them, that the hour will shortly sound for a terrible struggle between right and blind force, and that in that hour you will ever be found with those who have raised the same banner as yourselves.

And love, young men, love and reverence above every thing the ideal. The ideal is the word of God, superior to every country, superior to humanity; it is the country of the spirit, the city of the soul, in which all are brethren who believe in the inviolability of thought, and in the dignity of our immortal soul; and the baptism of this fraternity is martyrdom. From that high sphere spring the principles which alone can redeem the peoples. Arise for them! and not from impatience of suffering, or dread of evil. Anger, pride, ambition, and the desire of material prosperity are arms common to the peoples and their oppressors; and, even should you conquer with them to-day, you will fall again to-morrow: but principles belong to the peoples alone, and their oppressors can find no arms to oppose them. Adore enthusiasm. Worship the dreams of the virgin soul, and the visions of early youth, for they are the perfume of paradise, which the soul preserves in issuing from the hands of its Creator. Respect above all things your conscience; have upon your lips the truth that God has placed in your hearts, and, while working together in harmony in all that tends to the emancipation of our soil, even with those who differ from you, yet ever bear erect your own banner, and boldly promulgate your faith.

Mazzini

THE PRISONER.

THE OLD CANTEEN.

AUNT SOPHRONIA TABOR AT THE OPERA.

“So this is the uproar? Well, isn’t this a monster big building? And that chantieleer! It’s got a thousand candles if it has one. It must have taken a sight of tallow to have run them all!”—“They are make-believe candles, aunt, with little jets of gas inside to give the effect of real ones.”—“I want to know! Well, I only wish that your uncle Peleg was here. You’re sure, Louisa, that this is a perfectly proper place?”—“Why, aunt, you don’t suppose that papa would consent to our attending the opera if it were other than a perfectly proper place, do you?”—“No, no, dear; I suppose not. But somehow you city folks look upon such things differently from what we do who live in the country. Dear suz! Louisa, do look way up there in the tiptop of the house! Did you ever see such a sight of people? Why, excursion-trains must have run from all over the State. Massy, child! There’s a woman forgot her bonnet! Do just nudge her, Louisa, and tell her of it. My Eliza Ann cut just such a caper as that one Sunday last summer,—got clean into the meeting-house, and half way down the middle aisle, before she discovered it, and the whole congregation a-giggling and a-tittering. Your cousin Woodman Harrison shook the whole pew; and I don’t know but what he’d ’a’ hawhawed right out in meeting if his father hadn’t ’a’ given him one of his looks. As ’twas, I was afeard he’d bust a blood-vessel. Just speak to that poor creature, Louisa. She’ll feel awfully cut up when she finds it out, and ’tis a Christian duty to tell her.”—“Why, aunt, don’t you know that she is in full dress, and left her bonnet at home intentionally? See how beautifully her hair is arranged. You don’t suppose she wanted to cover up all that elegance, do you?”—“Come bareheaded a-purpose! Well, I do declare! But, Louisa, where’s the horse-chestnut?”—“The horse-chestnut, aunt?”—“Yes, child; you said something or other about a horse-chestnut playing a voluntary or something of that sort.”—“Oh, the orchestra! Yes, I remember. Don’t you see those gentlemen in front of the stage?”—“Them men with the fiddles and the bass-viols?”—“Yes. Well, they compose the orchestra, and the orchestral part of this opera is particularly fine.”—“I want to know! Belong to the first families, I suppose. They are an uncommon good-looking set of men. Is Mrs. Patte a furrener?”—“Yes; she’s a mixture of Spanish and Italian. She was born in Madrid, but came to the United States when only five years of age, and remained here until she was nearly seventeen. There, aunt; there’s the bell, and the curtain will rise in a minute. Yes; see, there it goes.”—“Louisa!”—“Sh—! listen. I want you to hear Signor Monti. He is considered a very fine bass.”—“But, Louisa, oughtn’t we to stand up during prayer-time?”—“You forget, aunt, that this is only a play, and not a temple.”—“Dear suz! I only wish your uncle Peleg was here. Somehow it seems kinder unchristian to be play-acting worship.”—“Why, aunt, there’s no need of your feeling so conscience-stricken. Lots of church-people come to the opera. It isn’t like the theatre, you know. It’s more—more—er—well, I can’t just express it, aunt. But, anyway, people who discountenance the theatre, especially during Lent, approve of the opera.”—“But, Louisa, what is the matter? La sakes, child! let’s get out as spry as ever we can! The theatre is all on fire. Hurry, Louisa! Wish that your uncle Peleg”—“Sh—aunt; do sit down. It isn’t a fire. It’s only the people applauding because Patti is on the stage. Don’t you see her?”—“Sakes alive! Is that it? I thought we was all afire, or Wiggin’s flood had come. So that is Mrs. Patte. Well, I declare for it! she’s as spry as a cricket, and no mistake. Why, Louisa, how old is she? She looks scarcely out of her teens.”—“Oh, aunt, you must not be so practical, and ask such personal questions. Ladies don’t always want their ages known; but, between ourselves, she’s over forty.”—“Is it possible? There, they’re at it again. What is the matter now?”—“Why, Scalchi has appeared. Don’t you see?”—“What, that dapper little fellow a-bowing and a-scraping and a-smirking! Is that Mr. Scalchi?”—“That’s Madame Scalchi, aunt; and she’s taking the part of Arsaces, the commander of the Assyrian army, you know.”—“Louisa, are you sure that this is a perfectly proper place? I only wish Peleg was here, for then I shouldn’t feel so sort a-skerry like and guilty.”—“Now, aunt, we mustn’t speak another word till the opera is through, because we disturb the people.”—“I suppose we do; but, whenever any thing happens, you nudge me, and I’ll nudge you; or we can squeeze hands,—that’s the way Peleg and I do when we go to the lyceum. It’s sorter social, and everybody can hear just as well.” Soon outrang the glorious voice. “Bravo! bravo! bravo!” echoed from all parts of the house “Hooray!”—“Why, Aunt Tabor! sit down.”—“If Peleg were only here! Hip, hip”—“Aunt, in pity’s name keep still! Don’t get so excited.”—“Well, I never! The sweat’s just a-rolling off me, and I am as weak as a rag-baby. I wish I had my turkey-tail. This mite of a fan of yours don’t give wind enough to cool a mouse.”—“Now, aunt, do keep quiet. You’ll hear better, and won’t get so warm.”—“Well, dear, I suppose you are right. But didn’t that sound like an angel-choir?”—“’Twas certainly very fine. One thing is sure: you’ve heard Patti at her best.”—“I’m so glad I came; and if Peleg was only along! But, there, I hain’t going to speak again till the uproar is over.” And so the opera went on, when, suddenly: “Louisa Allen, what are them half-nude statutes a-standing up in the back there? Don’t they realize that the whole congregation can see them? and haven’t they any modesty?”—“Why, aunt, that’s the ballet.”—“The what?”—“The ballet, aunt. Look, look! there they come. Isn’t that the very poetry of”—“Louisa Sophronia Tabor Allen, just you pick up your regimentals, and follow me; and that quick, too.”—“But, auntie”—“You needn’t auntie me. Just get your duds together, and we’ll travel. Thank goodness your uncle Peleg Josiah Tabor is not here! Don’t let me see you give as much as a glance to where those graceless nudities are, or, big as you are, I’ll box your ears.”—“Why, aunt”—“Louisa, I only wish I had my thickest veil, for I am positively ashamed to be caught in this unchristian scrape. Come, and don’t raise your eyes. There, thank goodness, we’re in pure air at last!”—“Why, aunt, I thought you were enjoying the opera!”—“The uproar, Louisa? I have nothing to say agin the uproar. Them voices would grace a celestial choir. This I say with all reverence. But that side show! I wouldn’t have had my Eliza Ann, nor my Woodman Harrison, ’a’ witnessed what we’ve come near a-witnessing for a thousand-dollar bill. No, not for a ten-thousand bill. And I am so thankful that your uncle Peleg was not here! Somehow, Louisa, I feel as if I’d fallen like the blessed Lucifer out of the moon.”

NEVER TOO LATE.

A FIGHT WITH A TROUT.

We had been hearing for weeks of a small lake in the heart of the forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with trout,—unsophisticated, hungry trout: the inlet to it was described as stiff with them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows, each a foot long, three tiers deep, a solid mass. The lake had never been visited, except by stray sable hunters in the winter, and was known as Unknown Pond. I determined to explore it fully, expecting that it would prove to be a delusion, as such haunts of the trout usually are. Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly made our preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at daybreak. Each of us carried a boat, a pair of blankets, a sack of bread, pork, and maple sugar; while I had my case of rods, reel, and book of flies, and Luke had an axe and the kitchen utensils. We think nothing of loads of this kind in the woods.

A couple of hours before sundown we reached the lake. If I live, to my dying day I shall never forget its appearance.... But what chiefly attracted my attention, and amused me, was the boiling of the water, the bubbling and breaking, as if the lake were a vast kettle with fire underneath. A tyro would have been astonished at this common phenomenon; but sportsmen will at once understand me, when I say that the water boiled with the breaking trout. I began casting, and had got out perhaps fifty feet of line, and gradually increased it to a hundred. It is not difficult to learn to cast, but it is difficult to learn not to jerk off the flies at every throw. Finally, in making a shorter cast, I saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk. The next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the unfeigned “dam” of Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat from his head, and deposited it among the lilies. Discouraged by this, we whirled about, and paddled over to the inlet, where a little ripple was visible in the tinted light. Instantly, upon casting, there was a rush, a swirl. I struck, and “Got him, by—” Never mind what Luke said I got him by. “Out on a fly,” continued that irreverent guide; but I told him to back water, and make for the centre of the lake. The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of the hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line with a rapidity that made it smoke. “Give him the butt,” shouted Luke. It is the usual remark in such an emergency. I gave him the butt; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, the trout sank to the bottom, and sulked. It is the most dangerous mood of the trout, for you cannot tell what he will do next. We reeled up a little, and waited five minutes for him to reflect. A tightening of the line enraged him, and he soon developed his tactics. Coming to the surface, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel in, and evidently with hostile intentions.

“Look out for him!” cried Luke, as he came flying in the air. I evaded him by dropping flat in the bottom of the boat; and when I picked my traps up he was spinning across the lake as if he had a new idea, but the line was still fast. He did not run far. I gave him the butt again, a thing he seemed to hate, even as a gift. In a moment the evil-minded fish, lashing the water in his rage, was coming back again, making straight for the boat as before. Luke, who was used to these encounters, having read them in the writings of travellers he had accompanied, raised his paddle in self-defence. The trout left the water about ten feet from the boat, and came directly at me with fiery eyes, his speckled sides flashing like a meteor. I dodged as he whisked by with a vicious slap of his bifurcated tail, and nearly upset the boat. The line was, of course, slack: and the danger was, that he would entangle it about me, and carry away one leg. This was evidently his game: but I untangled it, and only lost a breast-button or two by the swift-moving string. The trout plunged into the water with a hissing sound, and went away again with all the line on the reel. More butt, more indignation on the part of the captive. The contest had now been going on for half an hour, and I was getting exhausted. We had been back and forth across the lake, and around and around the lake. What I feared was, that the trout would start up the inlet, and wreck us in the bushes. But he had a new fancy, and began the execution of a manœuvre which I had never read of. Instead of coming straight toward us, he took a large circle, swimming rapidly, and gradually contracting his orbit. I reeled in, and kept my eye on him. Round and round he went, narrowing the circle. I began to suspect the game, which was to twist my head off. When he had reduced the radius of his circle to about twenty-five feet, he struck a tremendous pace through the water. It would be false modesty in a sportsman to say that I was not equal to the occasion. Instead of turning around with him, as he expected, I stepped to the bow, braced myself, and let the boat swing. Round went the fish, and round we went like a top. I saw a line of Mount Marcys all around the horizon; the rosy tint of the west made a broad bank of pink along the sky above the tree-tops; the evening star was a perfect circle of light, a hoop of gold in the heavens. We whirled and reeled, and reeled and whirled. I was willing to give the malicious beast butt and line and all, if he would only go the other way for a change.

When I came to myself, Luke was gaffing the trout at the boat-side. After we had got him in and dressed him, he weighed three-quarters of a pound! Fish always lose by being “got in and dressed.” It is best to weigh them while they are in the water. The only really large one I ever caught, got away with my leader when I first struck him. He weighed ten pounds.

Charles Dudley Warner.

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

FORCIBLE ENTRY.

It happened out on South Hill, nine thousand miles from Maple Street. The man’s wife had taken up the carpet in the bath-room the day before, and put all the crooked tacks in a saucer, and put it on a chair. It is a marvellous thing why women will always save tacks that come out of the carpet; although it is a matter of record, that, out of the countless millions of tacks thus laid by, not one was ever used again, save in the soles of the bare masculine feet. They—the tacks, not the feet—are stowed away in saucers up on high shelves, in dark closets, and in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. And on these dusty perches they remain until the corroding hand of time, and dust, and spider-webs, and dead flies, and flakes of whitewash, and old bits of resin, and chunks of sealing-wax, and old steel pens, and similar accumulations, have filled the saucer to overflowing, when it is taken down and thrown away by the woman, who petulantly wonders who under the sun put all that trash in the saucer, and stuck it up there. And nine times out of ten she charges the crime on her husband. The tenth time she declares it was the hired girl. And always, before the saucer of crooked tacks is stowed away on the shelf, it is stuck around for three or four days on chairs and in corners of the room, spilling out occasional tacks on the carpet of every bedroom in the house, which fill the masculine soles with agony, and darken the air of the bedroom with inartistic but forcible profanity. Nothing is so painful as a crooked tack in the middle of one’s foot. A broken heart doesn’t hold half so much anguish, and a boil is a blessing in comparison.

This man who lives so far from Maple Street had a splendid bath; and when he had rubbed his skin into a glow with a crash-towel as rough as a pig’s back, he gathered his socks, and, backing up to the only chair in the room, sat down to put them on.

Every tack in that saucer saw him coming down.

Every last tack smiled in anticipation of the dénoûment, and stood on its head, and reached for him.

Every last solitary individual and collective tack fetched him, got him, and held to him.

He dropped his socks, and rose from that chair with an abruptness that knocked his head against the ceiling. He came down, and waltzed wildly round and round the room, shrieking and yelling, gyrating madly with his arms, while his eyes stuck out so far they hung down. He howled until the neighbors besieged the house, yet he wouldn’t let any of them in. At last his yells died away; but they could hear his breath hiss between his set teeth, while at short intervals would come a yell, supplemented by the remark, “There’s another out!” In about three-quarters of an hour the yells ceased entirely, the window was opened, and a shower of tacks fell over the assembled and wondering multitude; while a large saucer skimmed across the street, and smashed against the side of a house opposite.

Nobody knows what ails the man, for he will not tell any one a thing about it: but he takes his meals off the mantel-piece all the same; and, when he sits, he sits down on his hip, for all the world as though he wore a “tied-back.” But he doesn’t. It’s a tacked-back that ails him.

J. M. Bailey.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

The power to discern right amid all the wrappings of interest, and all the seductions of ambition, was singularly his. To choose the lowly; for their sake to abandon all favor, all power, all comfort, all ambition, all greatness,—that was his genius and glory. He confronted the spirit of the nation and of the age. I had almost said, he set himself against nature, as if he had been a decree of God overriding all these other insuperable obstacles. That was his function. Mr. Phillips was not called to be a universal orator, any more than he was a universal thinker. In literature and in history he was widely read; in person most elegant; in manners most accomplished; gentle as a babe; sweet as a new-blown rose; in voice, clear and silvery. He was not a man of tempests; he was not an orchestra of a hundred instruments; he was not an organ, mighty and complex. The nation slept, and God wanted a trumpet, sharp, far-sounding, narrow, and intense; and that was Mr. Phillips. The long roll is not particularly agreeable in music or in times of peace; but it is better than flutes or harps when men are in a great battle, or are on the point of it. His eloquence was penetrating and alarming. He did not flow as a mighty gulf-stream: he did not dash upon the continent as the ocean does; he was not a mighty rushing river. His eloquence was a flight of arrows, sentence after sentence, polished, and most of them burning. He shot them one after the other, and where they struck they slew; always elegant, always awful. I think scorn in him was as fine as I ever knew it in any human being. He had that sublime sanctuary in his pride that made him almost insensitive to what would by other men be considered obloquy. It was as if he said every day, in himself, “I am not what they are firing at. I am not there, and I am not that. It is not against me. I am infinitely superior to what they think me to be. They do not know me.” It was quiet and unpretentious, but it was there. Conscience and pride were the two concurrent elements of his nature.

He lived to see the slave emancipated, but not by moral means. He lived to see the sword cut the fetter. After this had taken place, he was too young to retire, though too old to gather laurels of literature, or to seek professional honors. The impulse of humanity was not at all abated. His soul still flowed on for the great under-masses of mankind; though, like the Nile, it split up into diverse mouths, and not all of them were navigable.

After a long and stormy life, his sun went down in glory. All the English-speaking people on the globe have written among the names that shall never die, the name of that scoffed, detested, mob-beaten Wendell Phillips. Boston, that persecuted and would have slain him, is now exceedingly busy in building his tomb, and rearing his statue. The men that would not defile their lips with his name are to-day thanking God that he lived.

He has taught a lesson that the young will do well to take heed to,—the lesson that the most splendid gifts and opportunities and ambitions may be best used for the dumb and the lowly. His whole life is a rebuke to the idea that we are to climb to greatness by climbing up on the backs of great men; that we are to gain strength by running with the currents of life; that we can from without add any thing to the great within that constitutes man. He poured out the precious ointment of his soul upon the feet of that diffusive Jesus who suffers here in his poor and despised ones. He has taught the young ambitions, too, that the way to glory is the way, oftentimes, of adhesion simply to principle: and that popularity and unpopularity are not things to be known or considered. Do right and rejoice. If to do right will bring you into trouble, rejoice that you are counted worthy to suffer with God and the providences of God in this world.

He belongs to the race of giants, not simply because he was in and of himself a great soul, but because he bathed in the providence of God, and came forth scarcely less than a god; because he gave himself to the work of God upon earth, and inherited thereby, or had reflected upon him, some of the majesty of his Master. When pygmies are all dead, the noble countenance of Wendell Phillips will still look forth, radiant as a rising sun,—a sun that will never set. He has become to us a lesson, his death an example, his whole history an encouragement to manhood,—to heroic manhood.

Henry Ward Beecher.

AUNT PARSONS’S STORY.

I told Hezekiah—that’s my man. People mostly call him Deacon Parsons, but he never gets any deaconing from me. We were married—“Hezekiah and Amariah”—that’s going on forty years ago, and he’s jest Hezekiah to me, and nothin’ more.

Well, as I was saying, says I, “Hezekiah, we aren’t right. I am sure of it.” And he said, “Of course not. We are poor sinners, Amy; all poor sinners.” And I said, “Hezekiah, this ‘poor-sinner’ talk has gone on long enough. I suppose we are poor sinners, but I don’t see any use of being mean sinners; and there’s one thing I think is real mean.”

It was jest after breakfast: and, as he felt poorly, he hedn’t gone to the shop yet; and so I had this little talk with him to sort o’ chirk him up. He knew what I was comin’ to, for we hed had the subject up before. It was our little church. He always said, “The poor people, and what should we ever do?” And I always said, “We never shall do nothin’ unless we try.” And so, when I brought the matter up in this way, he just began bitin’ his toothpick, and said, “What’s up now? Who’s mean? Amariah, we oughtn’t to speak evil one of another.” Hezekiah always says “poor sinners,” and doesn’t seem to mind it; but when I occasionally say “mean sinners,” he somehow gits oneasy. But I was started, and I meant to free my mind.

So I said, says I, “I was goin’ to confess our sins. Dan’l confessed for all his people, and I was confessin’ for all our little church.

“Truth is,” says I, “ours is allus called one of the ‘feeble churches,’ and I am tried about it. I’ve raised seven children, and at fourteen months old every boy and girl of ’em could run alone. And our church is fourteen years old,” says I; “and it can’t take a step yet without somebody to hold on by. The Board helps us; and General Jones, good man, he helps us,—helps too much, I think,—and so we live along; but we don’t seem to get strong. Our people draw their rations every year as the Indians do up at the agency, and it doesn’t seem sometimes as if they ever thought of doing any thing else.

“They take it so easy!” I said. “That’s what worries me. I don’t suppose we could pay all expenses; but we might act as if we wanted to, and as if we meant to do all we can.

“I read,” says I, “last week about the debt of the Board; and this week, as I understand,” says I, “our application is going in for another year, and no particular effort to do any better; and it frets me. I can’t sleep nights, and I can’t take comfort Sundays. I’ve got to feelin’ as if we were a kind of perpetual paupers. And that was what I meant when I said, ‘It is real mean!’ I suppose I said it a little sharp,” says I, “but I’d rather be sharp than flat any day; and if we don’t begin to stir ourselves, we shall be flat enough before long, and shall deserve to be. It grows on me. It has jest been ‘Board, Board, Board,’ for fourteen years, and I’m tired of it. I never did like boardin’,” says I; “and even if we were poor, I believe we might do something toward settin’ up housekeepin’ for ourselves.

“Well, there’s not many of us—about a hundred, I believe; and some of these is women-folks, and some is jest girls and boys. And we all have to work hard, and live close; but,” says I, “let us show a disposition, if nothing more. Hezekiah, if there’s any spirit left in us, let us show some sort of a disposition.”

And Hezekiah had his toothpick in his teeth, and looked down at his boots, and rubbed his chin, as he always does when he’s goin’ to say somethin’. “I think there’s some of us that shows a disposition.”

Of course I understood that hit, but I kep’ still. I kep’ right on with my argument; and I said, “Yes, and a pretty bad disposition it is. It’s a disposition to let ourselves be helped when we ought to be helping ourselves. It’s a disposition to lie still and let somebody carry us. And we are growing up cripples—only we don’t grow.

“’Kiah,” says I, “do you hear me?” Sometimes when I want to talk a little he jest shets his eyes, and begins to rock himself back and forth in the old arm-chair; and he was doin’ that now. So I said, “’Kiah, do you hear?” And he said, “Some!” and I went on. “I’ve got a proposition,” says I. And he sort o’ looked up, and said, “Hev you? Well, between a disposition and a proposition, I guess the proposition might be better.”

He’s awful sarcrostic, sometimes. But I wasn’t goin’ to get riled, nor thrown off the track; so I jest said, “Yes; do you and I git two shillin’s’ worth apiece, a week, out o’ that blessed little church of ourn, do you think?” says I. “Cos, if we do, I want to give two shillin’s a week to keep it goin’; and I thought maybe you could do as much.” So he said he guessed we could stand that; and I said, “That’s my proposition, and I mean to see if we can’t find somebody else that’ll do the same. It’ll show disposition, anyway.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll hev your own way,” says he: “you most always do.” And I said, “Isn’t it most allers a good way?” Then I brought out my subscription paper. I had it all ready. I didn’t jest know how to shape it, but I knew it was something about “the sums set opposite our names;” and so I drawed it up, and took my chances. “You must head it,” says I, “because you’re the oldest deacon; and I must go on next, because I am the deacon’s wife; and then I’ll see some of the rest of the folks.”

So ’Kiah sot down, and put on his specs, and took his pen, but did not write. “What’s the matter?” says I. And he said, “I’m sort o’ ’shamed to subscribe two shillin’s. I never signed so little as that for any thing. I used to give that to the circus when I was nothin’ but a boy, and I ought to do more than that to support the gospel. Two shillin’ a week! Why, it’s only a shillin’ a sermon, and all the prayer-meetin’s throwed in. I can’t go less than fifty cents, I am sure.” So down he went for fifty cents; and then I signed for a quarter, and then my sunbonnet went onto my head pretty lively; and says I, “Hezekiah, there’s some cold potato in the pantry, and you know where to find the salt; so, if I am not back by dinner-time, don’t be bashful, help yourself.” And I started.

I called on the Smith family first. I felt sure of them. And they were just happy. Mr. Smith signed, and so did Mrs. Smith; and Long John, he came in while we were talkin’, and put his name down; and then old Grandma Smith, she didn’t want to be left out; so there was four of ’em. I’ve allers found it a great thing in any good enterprise to enlist the Smith family. There’s a good many of ’em. Next, I called on the Joslyns, and next on the Chapins, and then on the Widdy Chadwick, and so I kept on.

I met a little trouble once or twice, but not much. There was Fussy Furber; and bein’ trustee, he thought I was out of my spear, he said; and he wanted it understood that such work belonged to the trustees. “To be sure,” says I: “I’m glad I’ve found it out. I wish the trustees had discovered that a leetle sooner.” Then there was sister Puffy that’s got the asthma. She thought we ought to be lookin’ after “the sperritooalities.” She said we must get down before the Lord. She didn’t think churches could be run on money. But I told her I guessed we should be jest as spiritual to look into our pocketbooks a little, and I said it was a shame to be ’tarnally beggin’ so of the Board.

She looked dredful solemn when I said that, and I almost felt as I’d been committin’ profane language. But I hope the Lord will forgive me if I took any thing in vain. I did not take my call in vain, I tell you. Mrs. Puffy is good, only she allus wanted to talk so pious; and she put down her two shillin’s, and then hove a sigh. Then I found the boys at the cooper-shop, and got seven names there at one lick; and when the list began to grow, people seemed ashamed to say no; and I kept gainin’ till I had jest an even hundred, and then I went home.

Well, it was pretty well towards candle-light when I got back, and I was that tired I didn’t know much of any thing. I’ve washed, and I’ve scrubbed, and I’ve baked, and I’ve cleaned house, and I’ve biled soap, and I’ve moved; and I ’low that a’most any one of that sort of thing is a little exhaustin’. But put your bakin’ and movin’ and bilin’ soap all together, and it won’t work out as much genuine tired soul and body as one day with a subscription paper to support the gospel. So when I sort o’ dropped into a chair, and Hezekiah said, “Well?” I was past speakin’; and I put my check apron up to my face as I hadn’t done since I was a young, foolish girl, and cried. I don’t know what I felt so bad about: I don’t know as I did feel bad. But I felt cry, and I cried. And ’Kiah, seein’ how it was, felt kind o’ sorry for me, and set some tea a-steepin’; and when I had had my drink with weepin’, I felt better. I handed him the subscription paper, and he looked it over as if he didn’t expect any thing; but soon he began saying, “I never! I never!” And I said, “Of course you didn’t: you never tried. How much is it?”—“Why, don’t you know?” says he. “No,” I said: “I ain’t quick in figures, and I hadn’t time to foot it up. I hope it will make us out this year three hundred dollars or so.”

“Amy,” says he, “you’re a prodigy—a prodigal, I may say—and you don’t know it. A hundred names at two shillin’ each gives us twenty-five dollars a Sunday. Some of ’em may fail, but most of ’em is good; and there is ten, eleven, thirteen, that sign fifty cents. That’ll make up what fails. That paper of yourn’ll give us thirteen hundred dollars a year!” I jumped up like I was shot. “Yes,” he says, “we sha’n’t need any thing this year from the Board. This church, for this year at any rate, is self-supporting.”

We both sot down and kep’ still a minute, when I said kind o’ softly, “Hezekiah,” says I, “isn’t it about time for prayers?” I was just chokin’; but, as he took down the Bible, he said, “I guess we’d had better sing somethin’.” I nodded like, and he just struck in. We often sing at prayers in the morning; but now it seemed like the Scripter that says, “He giveth songs in the night.” ’Kiah generally likes the solemn tunes, too; and we sing “Show pity, Lord,” a great deal; and this mornin’ we had sung “Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,” ’cause ’Kiah was not feelin’ very well, and we wanted to chirk up a little.

So I just waited to see what metre he’d strike to-night; and would you believe it? I didn’t know that he knew any sech tune. But off he started on “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.” I tried to catch on; but he went off lickerty-switch, like a steam-engine, and I couldn’t keep up. I was partly laughin’ to see ’Kiah go it, and partly crying again, my heart was so full; so I doubled up some of the notes, and jumped over the others; and so we safely reached the end.

But, I tell you, Hezekiah prayed. He allers prays well; but this was a bran’ new prayer, exactly suited to the occasion. And when Sunday come, and the minister got up and told what had been done, and said, “It is all the work of one good woman, and done in one day,” I just got scared, and wanted to run. And when some of the folks shook hands with me after meetin’, and said, with tears in their eyes, how I’d saved the church; and all that, I came awful nigh gettin’ proud. But, as Hezekiah says, “we’re all poor sinners;” and so I choked it back. But I am glad I did it; and I don’t believe our church will ever go boarding any more.