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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 .