THIS was the beginning, but by no means the end. The smiling Theodore
was a perfect gentleman, no doubt, as regarded affability of manners,
and he carried his point, whatever it was, by sheer good-natured
audacity, but reverence for the house of God seemed to have no place in
his nature.
When he wanted to hum a new tune during prayer time, why he hummed
the tune, in decorous undertone, it is true, and looking perfectly
good-natured the while; but to hum tunes and turn leaves seemed to be
the gentlemanly Theodore's idea of decorum in prayer time. Indeed,
as time passed this grew to be by no means the most trying part of
the proceedings of the choir. It became necessary to transact a great
deal of business after the services had fairly commenced. It suited
the leader's idea to sometimes change the tune but the moment before
singing, and of course the whispered word had to be passed down the
choir. This proceeding served as a sufficient explanation or excuse
whenever one of the more daring spirits ventured to criticise: "Why we
have to consult, of course. What would you have us do?—Sing hap-hazard?
Why must there always be such a fuss made over the consultation of
singers? Deacon Simmons can squeak down the aisle and consult with the
Brother Sharp about the hour for prayer meeting, in a whisper which can
be heard all over the room; and it is all right; but the moment one of
the choir ventures a whisper, people act as though we had committed the
unpardonable sin." This will serve as a specimen of the spirit in which
criticisms were received. Generally the fault-finders-were subdued by
these hints of volcanic eruptions, and did not venture to explain that
Deacon Simmons and Brother Sharp were never caught giggling behind
their fans, nor, however loud their whispers, no such sentences as
these floated through the room from their lips: "Have a chocolate
drop? Chocolate's good for the voice, you know;" or, "Isn't the sermon
dreadfully long drawn out this morning? I do wish he'd get through."
The winter waned, and the good-natured Theodore kept his position, and
introduced innovation after innovation in his gentlemanly way, until it
is a wonder the old church knew itself. Among other things the old reed
organ, which had done good service for several years, was pronounced
a wheezy, squeaky, harsh-throated old thing; in which opinion let me
hasten to confess my sympathy. I had no love for that organ, which,
when all the stops were out, had the power to drown any voice, however
sweet. It was declared that a pipe organ was the only thing fit for a
church, anyway; and here, again, I must admit that my heart approved. I
love the music of a pipe organ.
It was found that a certain church, known to the friendly Theodore,
was about to set up a new organ, and would dispose of their old one,
purely out of consideration for the said Theodore, at a very low figure
indeed. And our choir, which could be very enthusiastic indeed when it
chose, declared its intention of raising enough money, forthwith, for
that organ.
Vigorously did they set to work. A busy winter we had of it. And by
pop-corn parties, and white-apron parties, mid post-offices, and
prize pincushions, and grab-bags, necktie sociables, and sheet and
pillow-case sociables, and every other kind of sociable or game of grab
which was ever invented, the organ fund actually swelled to respectable
proportions. Never was a busier winter, nor a more popular man than the
gentlemanly leader of our choir. His good nature and his self-sacrifice
knew no bounds. Indeed, the young people were all self-sacrificing.
They sacrificed the prayer meeting, and the mission band, and the
reading circle, and almost everything else except the skating rink, in
their zeal for the pipe organ. "It is all for the sake of the cause,
you know," grew to be the motto of the young people, and it was really
wonderful what marvels of ingenuity they became!
And they succeeded; just as a band of young people, plunged heart and
soul into anything, are almost certain to succeed. The everlasting pity
is that so often success is not worth the price paid!
But there came a happy day in which the pipe organ was set up by
skilled hands in our church, and the Sabbath following the choir outdid
themselves. It was long since Auntie Barber had attempted to sing; but
on this particular day she was seen moving her lips. She explained it
afterwards. "The critter rolled so loud, and the girls all sang so
high, that I just put in Old Hundred, softly, because I wanted to have
a share in the praising. I thought nobody would mind. They drownded it,
you know."
But Auntie Barber was mistaken; the echo of her tremulous notes:
"'Praise Him all creatures here below,'"
went up to Heaven, and the angels minded it very much. And the
good-natured Theodore happened to notice the movement of her lips, and
whispered to the first soprano during an organ interlude:
"Look at old Auntie Barber mouthing it; won't she have a time, though,
keeping up with the next strain!"
Whereat the first soprano giggled, and whispered to the second soprano,
who giggled, and passed the whisper down the line, and all were so much
amused that they liked not to have been ready for the next strain,
which ran so high that they expected to leave old Auntie in the lurch.
But this time the gentlemanly Theodore was mistaken. Old Auntie's
mouthing reached higher than any strain of music his small soul had
ever felt.
Whether the pipe organ was at fault, or whatever was the cause of it,
hilarity seemed to develop in our choir, during the spring, to a really
alarming extent. The gentlemanly Theodore took to writing notes, not
always about the next selection, as was proved by finding one or two
ran thus:
"Father Stearns didn't approve of our last effort. Notice his face; it
looks as though he had eaten a ten-penny nail preserved in vinegar."
At another time a paper containing advice as to the next selection was
found, and read as follows:
"If Dr. Prosy ever subsides, let's sing 'Oh, long expected day begin,'
as more appropriate to our feelings than the one we have chosen."
Those notes, of course, had to travel the entire length of the large
choir, and great was the amusement created; fans, handkerchiefs and
hymn books were in constant requisition to cover the explosions of
untimely mirth.
There were also sundry little private missives, passed by the leader to
his special favorites, which, of course, must be answered; and as there
were young men in the choir who had favorites, and as a leader is to be
followed of course, this form of entertainment became very popular.
The gentlemanly Theodore also developed artistic talent, and adorned
the fly-leaves of his note book with certain photographs labeled "The
Deacon in the dumps," or "Old Auntie in a seraphic state;" and down
the line would be passed the caricature of Deacon Slocumb with his
chin dropped into his shirt collar, his thumbs interlocked in the act
of twirling, and a frown on his forehead so deep that it seemed to
cast a shadow over his whole face. Then dear old Auntie Barber's face
would travel from one simpleton to another— her rather old-fashioned
black bonnet exaggerated until it was larger and queerer than any she
ever thought of wearing, and yet looking enough like it to suggest the
old lady, even though her placid face hadn't peeped out from under
it, her head slightly thrown back, her eyes closed, a pair of immense
spectacles pushed up on her forehead, and a sort of exaggeration of
satisfaction on her old face; the whole calculated to make the young
and heedless laugh. It was really a good comic likeness of the old
lady; there is no denying that the affable Theodore had other than
musical talent. But there was that about the picture, after all, which
it seemed to me was calculated to make a young person who had a dear
old mother flush with indignation.
It always seemed to me a bad sign to see people amused with caricatures
of good, pure old faces.
I don't remember how long the members of our choir indulged in these
various entertainments; but I know that, as the weeks went by, they
waxed bolder and bolder. Candies, nuts, and even lemons, circulated
freely; notes were industriously written and boldly passed, and the
whispering became almost incessant. The fact was, our choir was
becoming noted for something besides its music; some of us were
actually ashamed to take a guest to church with us, lest our choir
might shock them. Well do I remember the Sunday on which the crisis
came.
The whispering had been almost incessant during the first part of the
sermon, and more than once an audible chuckle had rippled down to
those who sat nearest. The minister, good, long-suffering man, tried
earnestly not to let his annoyance be seen; but he had borne a great
deal; and those who knew him well watched anxiously the steadily rising
flush on his unusually pale face. Once he stopped in the middle of a
sentence, and waited for full half a minute, which of course seemed
to us anxious ones like half an hour, for the whispering behind him
to cease. I do not know to this day whether it was unusual and almost
unaccountable heedlessness, or a spirit of defiant recklessness, which
took possession of our choir for the rest of the morning. Whatever it
was, Satan must have been proud of them, for certainly he had it very
much his own way among most of them. Suddenly the minister made another
ominous pause; so sudden was the silence that part of the loud whisper
behind him was heard in the still church; "Tell him I'll flat in the
next hymn awfully if he doesn't—"