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the chorus-all the papers favourably commented on it, for 'twas said each fernale member had a forty-dollar bonnet. Now in the 'amen corner of the church sat Brother Eyer, who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing with the choir; he was poor, but genteel-looking, and his heart as snow was white, and his old face beamed with sweetness when he sang with all his might. His voice was cracked and broken, age had touched his vocal chords, and nearly every Sunday he would mispronounce the words of the hymns: and 'twas no wonder; he was old and nearly blind, and the choir rattling onward always left him far behind. The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother Eyer sang too slow, and then he used the tunes in vogue a hundred years ago; at last the storin-cloud burst, and the church was told, in fine, that the brother must stop singing, or the choir would resign.

Then the pastor called together in the lecture-room one day seven influential members who subscribe more than they pay, and having asked God's guidance in a printed prayer or two, they put their heads together to determine what to do. They debated, thought, suggested, till at last 'dear Brother York, who last winter made a million on a sudden rise in pork, rose and moved that a committee wait at once on Brother Eyer, and proceed to rake him lively “for disturbin' of the choir.' Said he: 'In that 'ere organ I've invested quite a pile, and we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the latest style. Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hardest thing fer to make God understand him when the brother tries to sing. We've got the biggest organ, the best-dressed choir in town, we pay the steepest sal’ry to our pastor, Brother Brown ; but if we must humour ignorance because it's blind and old—if the choir's to be pestered, I will seek another fold.'

Of course the motion carried, and one day a coach and four, with the latest style of driver, rattled up to Eyer's door; and the sleek, well-dressed committee, Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, as they crossed the humble portal took good care to miss the jamb. They found the choir's great trouble sitting in his old arm-chair, and the summer's golden sunbeams lay upon his thin white hair; he was singing 'Rock of Ages ’ in a voice both cracked and low, but the angels understood him, 'twas all he cared to know.

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Said York: We're here, dear brother, with the vestry's approbation, to discuss a little matter that affects the congregation. And the choir, too,' said Sharkey, giving Brother York a nudge. And the choir, too !” he echoed with the graveness of a judge. “It was the understanding when we bargained for the chorus, that it was to relieve us, that is, do the singing for us ; if we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, dear brother, it will leave our congregation and be gobbled by another. We don't want any singing except that what we've bought! The latest tunes are all the rage ; the old ones stand for naught; and so we have decided-are you listening, Brother Eyer ?— that you'll have to stop your singin', for it furrytates the choir.'

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign that he did hear, and on his cheek the trio caught the glitter of a tear; his feeble hands pushed back the locks white as the silky snow, as he answered the committee in a voice both sweet and low. I've sung the psalms of David for nearly eighty years; they've been my staff and comfort, and calmned life's many fears. I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm doing wrong; but when my heart is filled with praise, I can't keep

'I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking at my feet, in the far-off heavenly temple, where the Master I shall greet—yes, I wonder, when I try to sing the songs of God up higher, if the angel band will church me for disturbing heaven's choir.'

A silence filled the little room ; the old man bowed his head; the carriage rattled on again, but Brother Eyer was dead ! Yes, dead ! his hand had raised the veil the future hangs before us, and the Master dear had called him to the everlasting chorus. The choir missed him for a while, but he was soon forgot, a few church-goers watched the door; the old man entered not. Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he sings his heart's desires, where there are no church committees and no fashionable choirs !

back a song

The Little Quaker Sinner.
A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin,
Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her form within-

She wore a gown of sober grey, a cape demure and prim, With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat, and trim. Her bonnet, too, was grey and stiff ; its only line of grace Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her rosy face. Quoth she, “Oh, how I hate this hat ! I hate this gown and cape ! I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish shape; The children passing by to school have ribbons on their hair; The little girl next door wears blue; oh, dear, if I could dare, I know what I should like to do!”—(The words were whis

pered low, Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts below.) Calmly reading in the parlour sat the good aunts, Faith and

Peace, Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their

young niece.

All their prudent, humble teaching wilfully she cast aside,
And, her mind now fully conquered by sad vanity and pride,
She, with trembling heart and tingers, on a hassock sat her down,
And this little Quaker sinner sewed a tuck into her gown !
“Little Patience, art thou ready? Fifth-day meeting-time has

come, Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left their

home.” 'Twas Aunt Faith's sweet voice that called her, and the naughty

little maidGliding down the dark old stairway-hoped their notice to

evade, Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the door, Ah, never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore ! Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts

were pure and holy; And Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble

mind and lowly. But “tuck—tuck !" chirped the sparrows at the little maiden's


And, in passing Farmer Watson's, where the barn-door opened

wide, Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every cluck, Seemed to her affrightened fancy like “a tuck!" "a tuck !

"a tuck !"

In meeting Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity,
While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful tuck

to see.
How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the air,
And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her care.
Oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations ended,
Behind her two good aunties her homeward way she wended.
The pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager arms,
And deeply she had tasted of the world's alluring charms, -
Yea, to the dregs had drained them, and only this to find :
All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind.
So repentant, saddened, humbled, on her hassock she sat down,
And this little Quaker sinner ripped the tuck out of her gown !

On the Door-Step.
The conference meeting through at last,

We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,

Like snow-birds willing to be mated.
Not braver he that leaps the wall

By level musket flashes bitten,
Than I, who stepped before them all,

Who longed to see me get the mitten.
But no ! she blushed and took my arm :

We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm

Along a kind of lovers' by-way.
I can't remember what we said

'Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped

Seemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff-

O sculptor! if you could but mould it !

So slightly touched my jacket cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone-

'Twas love and fear and triumph blended.
At last we reached the foot-worn stone

Where that delicious journey endel.
The old folks, too, were almost home :

Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She shook her ringlets from her hood,

And with a “Thank you, Ned !' dissembled ;
But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.
A cloud passed kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said,

Come, now or never ! do it! do it!'
My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,
But somehow full

Sweet rosy darling mouth–I kissed her!
Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still,

O listless woman! weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill,

I'd give— but who can live youth over ?

her own

The Nine Suitors.

(l'erse printed as Prose.) A British ship at anchor lay in the harbour of New York : the stevedores were packing her with Yankee beef and pork. Nine slim Young Men went up the plank, and they were tall and good ; but none of them had ever loved—they said they never would ! But whether they wouldn't,—or whether they couldn't —or their mothers said they shouldn't,—the world will never know !

The passengers were all on board : the vessel got up steam, and floated down the river, like the-ah-something-of a

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