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
schoolmaster, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink
bonnet--to announce the tune.
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!
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.
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