The Bossier banner. [volume] (Bellevue, Bossier Parish, La.) 1859-1952, 1883-08-09

the hYmn-bO0k unoDSeTV6u. ne
watcher saw it. He. sees the hole in
the quarter that Elder Skinner dropped
in the plate. He sees that Deacon
Slowboy has on but one cuff. Ii the
door swings he looks around; if the
window moves noiselessly he looks up.
He sees the stranger in his neighbor's
pew, and he sees Brother Badman sit
ting away back under the gallery fur
lively take chew of the inhibited fine
cut. All things that nobody wants him
to see the watcher sees. He sees so
much he has no time to listen.
V. THE TIME-KEEPER.- AS you pro.
nounee your text, you see the time
keeper take out his watch, look at it
carefully, and close it with q snap that
says. 'sGon' clear to the pulpit. You
know that he has you down to a sec
ond, and that he keeps a faithful record
of the length of every sermon you
preach, usually adding five or ten min
utes to the record, Etto allow for diff
ference in watches" During the SER
mon he refers to that watch every few
minutes or oftener. And when you
have been preaching, say, twenty-five
minutes, the time-keeper looks at his
watch and starts. Can he believe his
eyes? He looks at the watch; then he
gazes at you. Then he looks around
at the clock on the gallery to be assured
that his watch hasn't been stopped ever
since last Sunday Then he makes
movement to close the watch and re-
turn it to his pocket, but changes his
mind, looks at it again, smiles de-
spairing smile, and holds his hand up
little so that his neighbor can see what
time it is. Then, with a long, fixed
look at you, he clicks his watch shut
and slowly returns it to his pocket with
the expression of man whose amaze
ment has struck him dumb, and who
cannot actually believe the evidence of
his own senses. If the time-keeper
cannot ruin the closing five minutes of
your sermon you are proof against an.
noyance.
VI THE SQUEAKER.-He comes IN
late. His pew is the furthest from the
door. His boots are vocal monsters
that are never worn save on the Sab
bath day to keep it noisy. Down the
long aisle he walks, squee-squaW, squee-
squaw Whenhe reaches his pew there
hospitality, and he wouldn' disturb one
of them for $1,000. Back he goes to a
seat under the gallery. squee-souaW,
squee-squaw. Then he remembers that
he has q notice for you to read. and back
he squeaks to the pulpit, hands you the
wrong notice, and solemnly squawks
back to the door, and once more sqneaBs
back to the pulpit, delivers the proper
notice, and calmly squawks back to his
| distant seat, he alone solemn, while all
others are inclined to smile. The
squeaker is such good man you can t
bear to scold him. He's awfully good.
And the gooder he is the worse he
squeaks.
| VII. THE TALKING TRAVELLER. This
brother is usually sister. She comes
to church Sunday morning careful and
| troubled about all the unfinished mis-
| sionary and sewing circle business of
| the week. She has no idea of going
directly to her own pew, but she heads
| straight for some other sister, and IN
the solemn hush that precedes the SER
vices and all the time the congregation
/ is gathering, you can hear her voice as
| cending high in sibilant buzzes. From
the first sister she fits to another, and
buzz, buzz, buzz, the talk goes on. Her
voice rises higher as the choir inter-
rupts her conversation with voluntary,
and only when the minister rises for
prayer does she relapse into enforced
silence. The time of the short prayer
she utilizes by travelling to her own pew,
so she rustles and patters an accompald-
/ ment to the Invocation, dropping into
her seat with the amen. Then she looks
across the church, and seeing q sister
over on the other side whom she had
been unable to include in her itinerant
caucus, she noiselessly shapes half q
dozen words at her with her mouth
which she opens and shuts, and expands
in this voiceless effort, in such dreadful
pantomime, that if it were not in church
you would think the sister was swear
| ing.-Robt J Burdette, IN Cincinnati
Enquirer.
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