I Saw Three Ships | Page 2

hard words,
considerin' what's to come. But 'tis given to flutes to make a noticeable
sound, whether tunable or false."
"Terrible shy he looks, poor chap!"
The three men turned and contemplated Young Zeb Minards, who sat
on their left and fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing his legs.
"How be feelin', my son?"
"Very whitely, father; very whitely, an' yet very redly."
Elias Sweetland, moved by sympathy, handed across a peppermint
drop.
"Hee-hee!" now broke in an octogenarian treble, that seemed to come
from high up in the head of Uncle Issy, the bass-viol player; "But cast
your eyes, good friends, 'pon a little slip o' heart's delight down in the

nave, and mark the flowers 'pon the bonnet nid-nodding like bees in a
bell, with unspeakable thoughts."
"'Tis the world's way wi' females."
"I'll wager, though, she wouldn't miss the importance of it--yea, not for
much fine gold."
"Well said, Uncle," commented the crowder, a trifle more loudly as the
wind rose to a howl outside: "Lord, how this round world do spin!
Simme 'twas last week I sat as may be in the corner yonder (I sang bass
then), an' Pa'son Babbage by the desk statin' forth my own banns, an'
me with my clean shirt collar limp as a flounder. As for your mother,
Zeb, nuthin 'ud do but she must dream o' runnin' water that Saturday
night, an' want to cry off at the church porch because 'twas unlucky.
'Nothin' shall injuce me, Zeb,' says she, and inside the half hour there
she was glintin' fifty ways under her bonnet, to see how the rest o' the
maidens was takin' it."
"Hey," murmured Elias, the bachelor; "but it must daunt a man to hear
his name loudly coupled wi' a woman's before a congregation o' folks."
"'Tis very intimate," assented Old Zeb. But here the First Lesson ended.
There was a scraping of feet, then a clearing of throats, and the
musicians plunged into "O, all ye works of the Lord."
Young Zeb, amid the moaning of the storm outside the building and the
scraping and zooming of the instruments, string and reed, around him,
felt his head spin; but whether from the lozenge (that had suffered from
the companionship of a twist of tobacco in Elias Sweetland's pocket),
or the dancing last night, or the turbulence of his present emotions, he
could not determine. Year in and year out, grey morning or white, a
gloom rested always on the singers' gallery, cast by the tower upon the
south side, that stood apart from the main building, connected only by
the porch roof, as by an isthmus. And upon eyes used to this
comparative obscurity the nave produced the effect of a bright parterre
of flowers, especially in those days when all the women wore scarlet
cloaks, to scare the French if they should invade. Zeb's gaze, amid the

turmoil of sound, hovered around one such cloak, rested on a slim back
resolutely turned to him, and a jealous bonnet, wandered to the bald
scalp of Farmer Tresidder beside it, returned to Calvin Qke's sawing
elbow and the long neck of Elias Sweetland bulging with the fortissimo
of "O ye winds of God," then fluttered back to the red cloak.
These vagaries were arrested by three words from the mouth of Old
Zeb, screwed sideways over his fiddle.
"Time--ye sawny!"
Young Zeb started, puffed out his cheeks, and blew a shriller note.
During the rest of the canticle his eyes were glued to the score, and
seemed on the point of leaving their sockets with the vigour of the
performance.
"Sooner thee'st married the better for us, my son," commented his
father at the close; "else farewell to psa'mody!"
But Young Zeb did not reply. In fact, what remained of the peppermint
lozenge had somehow jolted into his windpipe, and kept him occupied
with the earlier symptoms of strangulation.
His facial contortions, though of the liveliest, were unaccompanied by
sound, and, therefore, unheeded. The crowder, with his eyes
contemplatively fastened on the capital of a distant pillar, was pursuing
a train of reflection upon Church music; and the others regarded the
crowder.
"Now supposin', friends, as I'd a-fashioned the wondrous words o' the
ditty we've just polished off; an' supposin' a friend o' mine, same as
Uncle Issy might he, had a-dropped in, in passin', an' heard me read the
same. 'Hullo!' he'd 'a said, 'You've a-put the same words twice over.'
'How's that?' 'How's that? Why, here's O ye Whales (pointin' wi' his
finger), an' lo! again, O ye Wells.' ''T'aint the same,' I'd ha' said. 'Well,'
says Uncle Issy, ''tis spoke so, anyways'--"
"Crowder, you puff me up," murmured Uncle Issy, charmed with this

imaginative and wholly flattering sketch. "No--really now! Though,
indeed, strange words have gone abroad