WHO is not carried back to good old times as he reads this sketch of
Connecticut goin' to meetin' fifty years ago? It is a genuine story
contributed to the Drawer:
"In the early part of the ministry of Rev. Jehu C----k, who preached
many years in one of the pleasant towns in the western part of
Connecticut, it was the custom of many of the good ladies from the
distant parts of his parish to bring with them food, which they ate at
noon; or as they used to say, 'between the intermission.' Some brought a
hard-boiled egg, some a nut-cake, some a sausage; but one good woman,
who had tried them all, and found them all too dry, brought some pudding
and milk. In order to bring it in a dish from which it would not spill
over on the road, and yet be convenient to eat from, she took a pitcher
with a narrow neck at the top, but spreading at the bottom. Arrived at
the meeting-house, she placed it under the seat. The exercises of the
day soon commenced, and the old lady became wholly rapt in her
devotional feelings. Though no philosopher, she knew by practice--as
many church-goers seem to have learned--that she could receive and
'inwardly digest' the sermon by shutting her eyes, and opening her
mouth, and allowing all her senses to go to sleep. While thus prepared,
and lost to all external impressions, she was suddenly startled by a
rustling and splashing under the seat. She had no time to consider the
cause before she discovered her dog, Put, backing out with the neck of
the pitcher over his head, and the pudding and milk drizzling out. Poor
Put had been fixing his thoughts on material objects alone; and taking
advantage of the quietness of the occasion, had crept under the seat of
his mistress, where he was helping himself to a dinner. His head had
glided easily through the narrow portion of the pitcher; but, when quite
in, it was as securely fixed as an eel in a pot. Unable to extricate
himself, he had no alternative but to be smothered or back out. The old
lady bore the catastrophe in no wise quietly. A thousand terrible
thoughts rushed into her mind; the ludicrous appearance of the dog and
pitcher, the place, the occasion, the spattering of her garments, the
rascally insult of the puppy--but, above all, the loss of her
'Sabber-day' dinner. At the top of her voice she cried,
"'Get out, Put! get out! Oh, Jehu! I'm speakin' right out in meetin'!
Oh! I'm talkin' all the time!'
"The scene that followed is not to be described. The frightened old lady
seized her dog and pitcher, and rushed out of meeting; the astonished
preacher paused in the midst of his discourse, while the whole
congregation were startled out of their propriety by the explosion; and
it was some time before order and the sermon were again resumed."