Philomel Whiffet was dim of eye and sparse of beard. A little white
fringe framed his wrinkled face and numbered indeed were the hairs of
his foretop. Trudging up the snow-covered mountain, he caught sight of
the glowing stove through the window of Bethel church house whither he
was bound this winter night to conduct singing school. He chuckled to
himself, drawing the knitted muffler closer about his thin throat and
making fast the earflaps of his coonskin cap. "Yes, they're getting the
place het up before the womenfolk come. Mathias or Jonathan, one or the
other." The singing master had come to know the signs by the behavior of
the old heating stove--who rivaled, who courted, who might be on the
outs. "It's Jonathan that's making the fire tonight. I caught the shadow
of him against the wall when he threw in the stove wood. Jonathan's all
of a head taller than Mathias. Trying to get in favor with Drusilla
Osborn. It's a plum shame the way that girl taynts him and Mathias. At
meeting first with one, then the other. She's got the two young fellows
as mad as hornets at each other nigh half the time. No telling, Dru's
liable to shun them both when it comes to choosing a mate. Women are
strange creatures." The singing master talked to himself as he plodded
on.
Many the year Philomel Whiffet traveled that selfsame road with the
selfsame aim, for the church house was the only place on Pigeon Creek
where folks could gather. The seat of learning too it was there in the
Tennessee mountains, so that old Whiffet, having journeyed hither and
yon to take up a subscription for singing school, must need get the
consent of school trustees and elders in order to hold forth in Bethel
church house. Honor-bound too, was he, to divide his fee of a dollar per
scholar with his benefactors.
"We're giving you the chance, brother Whiffet, to earn a living," one of
the elders murmured when the singing master that year shared with them
his meager earnings. But when Philomel ventured to suggest it might
liven the gathering somewhat if he brought along his dulcimer and
strummed the tune while scholars sang, both elders and trustees stood
aghast. Couldn't believe their ears. "Brother Whiffet!" gasped one of
the elders, "so long as we're in our right mind no music box of any
nature shall be brought into Bethel church house. We don't intend to
contrary the good Lord in any such way."
That settled it.
The memory of that session brought a smile to the old man's face.
"Elders and women have strange ways," he told himself as he walked on
through the snow, eyes fixed on the beacon light of the old heating
stove in the church house.
"Now I used to think that Mathias had got the best of Jonathan," his
thoughts returned to the present, "but there's no knowing if Drusilla is
aiming to set down her name Mistress Oneby or Mistress Witchcott. Women
are powerful tetcheous. Keep a man uncertain and troubled in his mind
with their everlasting whims."
No one knew that any better than did Philomel Whiffet. It made him
patient with the young fellows in their trials, for he had had a mighty
hard row to hoe in his own courting days. Hadn't Ambrose Creech and Herb
Masters aggravated him within an inch of his life before he finally
persuaded Clarissa that neither of the two was worth his salt, that only
he, Philomel Whiffet, the singing master, could bring her happiness in
wedded life. That had been long years ago.
Philomel had been a widower for ten years past and never once had he
cast eyes on another woman; that is to say, with the idea of marriage.
"There's no need for a man to put his mind on such as that without he
can better himself, and I never calculate to see Clarissa's equal, let
alone her betters. Nohow, singing school is good a-plenty to keep a body
company." That was Philomel Whiffet's notion and he stuck to it. It was
as though she, Clarissa, still bustled about the Whiffet cabin, for
Philomel, though he lived alone, kept the place as she had--spic and
span just as Clarissa had left it. There on the shelf were the cedar
piggins, scoured clean with white sand from the creek, one for spice,
one for rendering, one for sweeting. And there on the wall hung the salt
gourd. "It's convenient to the woman for cooking," he had said when
first they started housekeeping. How happy he had been in those days,
looking after Clarissa and the little Whiffets as they came along. Not
until they were all grown and married off and gone, and he and Clarissa
were alone once more, did he really come to realize how very happy their
household had been. He liked to look back on those times. "It's
singing-school night, Pa"--Clarissa had taken to calling him Pa; got it
from the children. "You best strike the tuning fork and sing a tune or
two before you start. Gets your throat limbered up and going smooth."
Philomel had come to wait for her urging. Then he would fumble in his
waistcoat pocket for the tuning fork and tapping it to chair rim or
bootheel, he'd hold it to his ear, pitch the tune, and sing a verse or
two of this ballad and of that. Then when he started forth on a winter's
night, "Mind your wristban's!" his wife would say, "and your spectacles!
Don't forget your spectacles! Your sight's not sharp as it once was. And
your tuning fork, Pa. Don't forget to put it in your pocket." It pleased
the old singing master in those days to have Clarissa feel that he was
dependent upon her. And now that she was gone, for ten long years, those
familiar words running through old Philomel Whiffet's thoughts were all
he had left to remind him of his needs when he started out to singing
school.
Slowly he plodded on through the snow, his eyes raised now and again to
the light of the heating stove in the church house.
Arrived at the door he stomped the snow from his well-greased boots and
went in. Untying the flaps of the coonskin cap he moved across the
floor. "Good evening, boys," he greeted cheerily, unwinding now the
muffler from his throat.
"Good evening, sir!" the early birds, Jonathan and Ephraim Scaggs,
answered together. It wasn't Mathias Oneby, after all, whose shadow he
had seen against the wall. At once the singing master knew why Ephraim
Scaggs was there. His sister, Tizzie Scaggs, was head-over-heels in love
with Jonathan Witchcott. She was trying every scheme to get him away
from Drusilla Osborn. Yes, Tizzie had sent her brother Ephraim along
with Jonathan to make the fire so he could drop in a few words about
her; how apt she, Tizzie, was at many tasks, what a fine wife she'd make
for some worthy fellow. Philomel Whiffet knew the way of young folks.
And Drusilla knew the ways of Tizzie. She was really wary of her and
watchful, though Dru would never own it to Jonathan Witchcott.
Even though the snow was nearly knee-deep it didn't keep folks from
singing school. Already they were crowding in. So by the time old
Whiffet was ready to begin every bench was filled. Young men and old in
homespun and high boots, mothers and young girls in shawls and
fascinators, talking and laughing at a lively clip as they took their
places: sopranos in the front benches opposite the bass singers; behind
them, altos and tenors.
"I'm sorry to see that some of our high singers are not here this
evening." The old singing master from his place behind the stand
surveyed the gathering, squinting uncertainly by the light of the oil
lamp. High on the wall it hung without chimney, its battered tin
reflector dimmed by soot of many nights' accumulation. He picked up the
notebook from the little stand which served as pulpit for the preachers
on Sundays, and casually remarked, "We kinda look to the high singers to
help us through, to pitch the tune and carry it. Too bad"--he squinted
again toward the gathering--"that Drusilla Osborn is not here. Dru is a
extra fine singer. A fine note-singer is Dru. Takes after the Osborns.
Any of you heard if Osborns' folks have got sickness?"
A titter passed over the singing school and just then Tizzie Scaggs,
leering at Dru, piped out, "Why, yonder's Dru Osborn in the back seat!"
The tittering raised to a snicker and Philomel Whiffet, too
flabbergasted to call out Drusilla's name and send her to her own seat
with the sopranos where she belonged, turned quickly his back to the
school and fumbled in his pocket. He brought forth a piece of charred
wood, for chalk was a rarity on Pigeon Creek, and began to set down on
the rough log wall a measure of music. In shaped notes, for round notes
had not yet made their way into Philomel Whiffet's singing school.
Painstakingly he set down the symbols, some like little triangles,
others square, until he had completed a staff. Nor did he face the
school again until all the tittering had subsided. Then with the same
charred stick he drew a mark on the floor and called for sopranos, alto,
bass, and tenor to toe the mark.
Drusilla Osborn was first, then Lettie Burley, an alto, came next. Tom
Jameson, the tenor, and Felix Rideout, who couldn't be beat singing
bass, stood in a row careful-as-you-please to see that they kept a
straight line, toes to the mark, shoulders back, chests expanded. They
sang the scale through twice--forward and backward, bowed to the singing
master, then went back to their seats. It was a never-changing form to
which Philomel Whiffet clung as an example for the whole school to
follow should they be called to toe the mark. A fine way to show all how
a singer should rightly stand and rightly sing.
"Now, scholars," Whiffet brushed the black from his fingers, having
replaced the charred stick in his pocket, "lend attention!" Taking the
tuning fork from his waistcoat pocket, he looked thoughtfully at the
school. "Being as this singing school is drawing to a close, seems to me
we should review all we can this evening." He paused. "Now all that feel
the urge can take occasion to clear their throats before we start in."
Not one spurned the invitation, and when the raucous noise subsided
Philomel Whiffet tapped the tuning fork briskly on the edge of the
stand, put it to his ear, and listened as he gazed thoughtfully
downward.
"Do! Me! Sol! Do!" he sang in staccato notes, nodding the sparse gray
foretop jerkily with each note as bass, alto, tenor, soprano took up
their pitch. Thereupon he seized the pointer, a long switch kept
conveniently near in the corner, and indicated the first note of the
staff.
Scarcely had the pointer tapped a full measure before the school
realized they were singing by note an old familiar tune and with that
they burst forth with the words:
Oh! have you heard Geography sung?
For if you've not it's on my tongue;
First the capitals one by one,
United States, Washington.
They changed the meter only slightly as they boomed forth:
Augusta, Maine, on the Kennebec River,
Concord, New Hampshire, on the Merrimac.
Of course they knew it was the Geography Song from their McGuffey Reader
which the singing master had set to tune. To make sure they had not
forgotten the McGuffey piece he halted the singing and directed that
they speak over the piece together, which they did with a verve:
Oh! have you heard Geography sung?
For if you've not, it's on my tongue;
About the earth in air that's hung.
All covered with green, little islands.
Oceans, gulfs, and bays, and seas;
Channels and straits, sounds, if you please;
Great archipelagoes, too, and all these
Are covered with green, little islands.
Philomel Whiffet sometimes had his school do unexpected things that way.
And now once again they went on with the geography singing lesson,
putting in the names of places and rivers to the tune.
Far and wide traveled Philomel Whiffet's singing school, wafted by note
from freedom's shore to African wilds. They knew it all by heart. On and
on they sang, and Drusilla Osborn's voice led all the rest:
Bolivia capital Suc-re
Largest city in South America
Mexico is Mexico
Government Republican
Around the world and back again, nor did they stop until they again went
through all the States, finishing with a lusty:
New Hampshire's capital is for a fact
Concord on the Merrimac.
Silence came at last.
Taking from the stand the songbook, Philomel placed a hand behind him
and announced with quiet decorum, "Those who have brought their
notebooks will please open them up to page--" he faltered, fumbling the
leaves of his book. "Open to page--" still groping was Philomel Whiffet
and squinting at the faded pages. "Those who have not brought their
notebooks can look on with someone else." Trying to act unconcerned was
the singing master. "Turn to one--of our--old favorites," poor old
Whiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book. "My eyes--are
dim"--he mumbled in confusion--"I--cannot see." Vainly he searched his
vest pockets, the pockets of his coat. "--I've left my specs at home,"
he blurted in desperation.
With that the tantalizing Drusilla Osborn, from her bench at the back of
the room, nudged the girl beside her and, pointing to the staff of music
left on the wall where Philomel had placed it,--Dru began to hum.
"You've pitched it too shaller," whispered the other girl, and quickly
Dru hummed a lower register until her companion caught the pitch; then
the two sang loud and shrill:
My eyes are dim, I cannot see,
My specs I left at home.
And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had happened, sopranos, altos, and
bass had taken up the tune. Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat on
the very front bench where anybody could see with half an eye that the
singing master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his booming bass with
all his might and main. Hadn't Drusilla pitched the tune? What else was
the doting Jonathan to do? The two had been courting full six months,
just to spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias, the
patient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of the very last
bench straight across from the adored Drusilla, sitting where anyone
could see that Dru was playing a prank, when he heard the mighty boom of
his rival, joined in with his high tenor:
My eyes are dim, I cannot see,
My specs I left at home.
Louder and stronger roared Jonathan's bass. And Mathias, not to be
excelled, raised his shrill notes higher still, sweeping the sopranos
along with him.
Bethel church house fairly trembled on its foundation. Poor old Philomel
Whiffet raised his hands in dismay: "I did not mean for you to sing!" he
cried, and again Drusilla took up his words: