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24 THE
The Family
EASTER RAIMENT.
By Arthur Lewis Tubbs.
I put my black alpacy on
'N' started out for church,
Well knowin', as f'r style 'n' seeh,
That 1 was in the lurch.
I've had this bunnil several years,
'N' worn it all th' while.
But 1 guess th' angel up above
Ain't takin* notes of style.
I s'pose I've got a streak of pride,
I ain't denyin' that.
But I hope 'n' pray it runs t' more 'n
A hifaiutin' hat.
1 like t' look respectable,
But here's an honest prayer:
"Oh, Lord, give me a mind above
Th' clothes I have t' wear."
Wal, when I got there to th' church
'N' set down in a pew,
1 felt as if a fancy show
Was breakin' int' view.
T'he women kep' a-comin' in,
All rigged up gay an' fine.
Till 1 jest wondered if th' Lord
Could see such clothes 's mine.
I got pushed 'way back in th' seat,
in no one seemea i see
That I was even there at all,
'R give a thought t' me.
*N' then th' man c'mmenced t' play
Upon that organ grand,
*N' th' choir b'gun a-singin' loud?
But I couldn't understand.
'Twas high-toned music, I suppose,
'N' some may call it nice.
I hear th' singers make it pay,
They get a splendid price.
But, O! away down in my heart,
A-singin' sweet 'n* clear,
A good old hymn was soundin', that
I knew th' Lord would hear.
Th' sermon, it was pretty short,
Th' folks wa'n't there t' hear
Th' gospel message, but f'r show?
T' me 'twas plain 'n* clear.
And as I started home ag'in
In my old hat 'n' gown,
I prayed, "Oh, change , 'em sometime,
Lord,
F'r a white robe and a crown!"
THE LITTLE LAD.
An Easter Story.
Choir practice lonight at St. Paul'3.
The light falling on the stalned-g'ass win-dows
gives to passers-by no bint of the
beautiful colors that charm the eye when
the light is outside instead of in.
Soft, low notes float gently on the quiet
air. The organist is playing while the
choir is gathering.
The clock points to seven, as a tall.
slender boy comes hurriedly down the
aisle, and the frown fades from the brow
of the. little professor.
"Ah, at last!" he exclaims. "One moment
more and you would have been late,
Morrell."
It is not often that a choir boy is late
at St. Paul's. It Is too difficult to get into
the leading choir of the city for any boy
to risk his dismissal. In fact, Dwlght
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE SOUT
Morrell is the only one of the twenty who
would dare come sc near as this to being
late; but Morrell has ihe finest voice of
them all?and Is perfectly well aware of
the fact.
He glances at the clock with a careless
smile that exasperates the fiery little
director, who calls out, sharply, "We
will begin at once." The rehearsal goes
on, but it is not satisfactory to the professor.
He glances impatiently once or
twice at Morrell. Finally he raps
angrily on the table with his baton.
"Stop! stop! That will not do, Morrell.
You are not singing well tonight."
The hot color flushes the boy's face. A
(ptick retort trembles 011 his tongue, but
he does not quite dare utter it. He doe3
.1 ? uj- e 1* 1 -
Iiub icaiilic nun v;icitriy HIS leeiillg IS
written on his face. The professor understands
as well as if he had spaken.
"Jf you are not willing to practice, Mr.
Morrell, 1 can find some one who will,"'
he says, brusquely.
Morrell started angrily and bit his lip.
He had been so long the leading singer
of St. Paul's choir that it had never occurred
to him that he could be dispensed
with. That the professor must Slave
some one else in view, or he would never
have ventured such a reproof, seemed to
him certain. He choked down his
furious anger, and said, coldly:
"Can we try that passage again, sir?"
This time there were no false notei,
and the professor's brow cleared. "That
is oetter," he said, heartily, as the last
sweet notes died away.
The rehearsal over, the boys auickly
disappeared. Half a dozen of them left
the church together, Dwight Morrell
among them.
"What ailed the professor, tonight, anyhow?"
he began, then?"Get out of the
way, you little beggar," he burst out,
angrily, to a pale-faced little fellow who
was leaning on his crutch, in the vestibule.
As he spoke, his foot hit the
crutch, which went flying down the
steps, while the boy, with a sharp cry,
fell heavily to the stone floor.
Morrell half started, as if lo help the
hoy up, but another was before him?a
bright-faced lad, who sprang forward,
and, lifting the little fellow to his feet,
neia mm tin another bov Handed up the
crutch.
"If you meant to do that. Dwlght Morrell,
It was a mean, cowardly trick." exclaimpd
the bright-faced boy, his blue
eves blazing with honest indignation as
they looked straight Into Morreil's black
ones.
Morrell shrugged his shoulders. " 'Much
ado about nothing,'" he quoted, airily,
and went down the steps without a backward
glance.
"What was that little wretch doing
there, anyhow?" he said to his chum,
Dick Wilson, who had stood silently by
during this little episode and now walked
on with him. Dick was Morreil's ardent
ur\ nif vov e% oa/? r>*-? fm.D I > *
uHtm vi , ii?s va/uivi ov?; iiw inuii in inn
friend.
"He's Matthews' nephew. I believe." he
said; "come to live with nim lately.
Matthews Is down with chills 'n' fever,
'n' that little chap is doing hig work at
the church."'
"Humph!" growled Morrell. "Prettylooking
sexton he is?for St. Paul's.
But say, Dick, what did ail the professor
I
H. , April 14, 1909.
tonight? He never dared come down on
mo like that before."
"He was mighty peppery tonight?
that's a tact," said Dick. Then, with a
side glance at his friend, he added,
hesitatingly: "His son is back from
Germany. They say he's no end of a
singer."
Morrell was silent for a moment. His
heart beat quickly, and the blood rushed
to his head. "So that's what it means,"
he said, presently. "The professor wants
to pick a quarrel with me, so's to have
an excuse tor turning me off, "n"
putting his son in my place."
"Looks kinder that way," assented
Dick; "but you needn't ter bother. [
don't believe he c'n sing any betier'n
you can."
Morrell raised his head proudly. His
l-X- *
uti.ci hi urn own musical anility was unliniited.
He made ui> his mind that at
I he next rehearsal he would astonish the
professor a little.
Whether- or not the professor was astonished,
certainly lie Was well pleased
with the next rehearsal. His face beamed
with satisfaction as he listened to Mori-ell's
fine rendering of the solo which he
was going to sing on Easter morning,
when the great church would be thronged
with the strangers who would conie to
hear St. Paul's choir.
"Very well?very well, Mr. Morrell,"
he said. "If you can sing its well u? that
next Sunday I shall have no fault to
find. You have all done well this
evening,'' and he dismissed them with a
gracious smile.
Two persons were sitting near the
door at the back of the church as the
boys passed out. One was the little
pale-faced cripple with his crutch at his
side. He loved to sit in the semidarkness
and listen to the sweet music
that made him happier than anything
else in the world. The other was a tall,
slender lad with very dark eyes and hair.
"The professor's son," whispered Dick
in Morrell's ear.
Morrell. scowled at both the occupants
rsfi ? *- -
ui iiict u?-K jiew its ne passed. "Choice
company he keeps," he said, half aloud
to Dick.
"What makes you hate that little kid
so?" Dick asked, curiously, as they
walked on together.
"Oh, he makes me sick. Cripples and
hunchbacks ought to be shut up for life,
like lunatics and murderers," said Morrell,
roughly. "I'd as soon see a snake
as a cripple any time."
"Pretty hard on the cripples," Dick remarked.
"I reckon they wouldn't be
that way if they could help it."
"Probably not," said Morrell, caielessly;
"but come, let's talk of something
pleasanter."
The next rehearsal was the last before
Easter. Morrell was there; but he looked
pale and ill, and asked to be excused
from singing. "I've taken a heavy cold,"
he said, uneasily, "and I suppose I'll have
to save myself up for Sunday. I'll be
all right by that tlnie, I'm sure."
The professor readily excused him, but
shook his head as he looked after him.
"I doubt if he's all right by fhind&y," he
said to himself; "he looks to me if he
were in for a fit of sickness."
The professor had taken a great fancy
to Matthews' little nephev.', and often
sent him on errands, for which he paid
.