’Twas a Sunday morning early in May,
A beautiful, sunny, quiet day,
And all the village, old and young,
Had trooped to the church when the church bell rung.
The windows were open, and breezes sweet
Fluttered the hymn books from seat to seat.
Even the birds in the pale-leaved birch
Sang as softly as if in church!
Right in the midst of the minister’s prayer
There came a knock at the door. “Who’s there,
I wonder?” the gray-haired sexton thought,
As his careful ear the tapping caught.
Rap, rap, rap, rap—a louder sound.
The boys on the back seats turned around.
What could it mean? for never before
Had anyone knocked at the old church door.
Again the tapping, and now so loud,
The minister paused (though his head was bowed),
Rappety-rap! This will never do;
The girls are peeping, and laughing too!
So the sexton tripped o’er the creaking floor,
Lifted the latch, and opened the door.
In there trotted a big black dog,
As big as a bear! With a solemn jog
Right up the center aisle he pattered;
People might stare—it little mattered.
Straight he went to a little maid,
Who blushed and hid, as though afraid,
And there sat down, as if to say,
“I’m sorry that I was late to-day;
But better late than never, you know.
Besides, I waited an hour or so,
And couldn’t get them to open the door
Till I wagged my tail and bumped the floor.
Now, little mistress, I’m going to stay,
And hear what the minister has to say.”
The poor little girl hid her face and cried!
But the big dog nestled close to her side,
And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly,
Wondering what the matter could be!
The dog being large (and the sexton small),
He sat through the sermon and heard it all,
As solemn and wise as anyone there,
With a very dignified, scholarly air!
And instead of scolding, the minister said,
As he laid his hand on the sweet child’s head
After the service, “I never knew
Two better list’ners than Rover and you!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“LITTLE PETER.”
The sailors call this bird “Little Peter” because he is always trying to
walk on the sea. Strangely enough, he does not care to live on the land,
or even very near it. He even tucks his head under his wing and goes to
sleep with a wave for a cradle. He is a feather ball, so oily that the
water cannot wet him, and so light that he cannot sink. The petrel is
sometimes called “Mother Carey’s Chicken,” and follows the ships to get
the bits of food that are thrown overboard. He is very fond of fat, and
so he follows the whaling ships for the bits of “blubber” that are
thrown overboard. They get very fat themselves, and the people of the
Faröe Islands catch them to make candles of them. Think of it! They draw
a wick through the fat little body and hang them up in their huts to
give light at night. Poor “Little Peter!”
If you think that it is strange to use a bird for a candle, what do you
think of the Indians of Alaska who take a greasy little fish and run a
wick through and use that to light their little huts. Those who have
seen the candlefish and smelled him burning prefer the electric light.