He could not negotiate if
not at his post. We could not worship if not in our precise places. I
think, by the fussing and fidgeting which taking seats in the church
always causes, that everybody has the same feeling.
It was Sunday afternoon. The good minister, Parson Oliver, had finished
his sermon. The text was--well, I can't pretend to remember. Aunt
Clara's behavior in meeting, and what she said to us that afternoon,
have put the text, sermon, and all out of my head forever. That is no
matter; or rather, it is all the better; for when the same sermon comes
again, in its triennial round, I shall not recognize an old
acquaintance.
The sermon finished, we took up our hymn-books, of course. But the
minister gave out no hymn. He sat down with a patient look at the choir,
as much as to say, "Now, do your worst!" Then we understood that we
were to be treated to an extra performance, not in our books. There had
been a renewal of interest in the choir, and there was a new
singing-master. We were to have the results of the late practisings and
the first fruits of the new school. The piece they sung was that in
which occur the lines,--
"I'd soar and touch the heavenly strings,
And vie with Gabriel, while he sings,
In notes almost divine!"
We always, when we rise during the singing, face round to the choir.
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