News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1899-10-04

~EHm%S effect of this recitation
+ss-' was that his tribe were
inspired to such pitch Of daring and
recklessness as to become invincible
History does not tell us whether they
considered the swords OF their foemeE
gentler than their bard's verses, OF
whether the spirit in the lines excited
them to such heroism, just as the
music of a band makes you tingle
from your toes to your head and calls
you to follow it as long as the music
plays.
But the Puritans went the old poet
one better. One of their hymns taken
from the 18th Psalm published in
1928, contained 156 verses. Just think
OF it. And every verse mad TO lie sung
when it's number was called out on the
Puritan Sunday. Shall we spend q
Sabbath with a little Puritan maid
say on a Sunday in June in the year
1899?
Since early morning the church bell
has been ringing The little Puritan
maid has been up since daybreak.
And now it is time to go to church.
The little frame church in just on the
outskirts of the village. Through the
path in the cool woods, with deter
mined face. stern set eyes looking
from side to side. walks the Puritan
father, Bible clasped firmly in one
hand and over his shoulder musket,
for the Indians are close about With
him, in russell gown. following close
behind. is his sweet faced wife, an6
clasping her hand tightly is the little
Puritan maid.
The hum and buzz of the wild bees
gathering honey, the sweet fragrance
OF the flowers and the GOODNESS of the
woods are in the June air. The sun
light ahead two little yellow butter
fes tumble round each other, mount
ing higher and highes. From the
woods come the call of the robin and
the golden trill of the 'blackbird. The
little maid reaches her hand toward
butterfly and laughs. The father turns
toward her his stern eyes. No laugh
ter on the Sabbath. Aad now they
have reached the church. Slowly the
villagers seat themselves III their nigh
backed board pews. No sound it with
in the darkened church. And now
men with guns take their stand at
the windows and at the doors, for no
one can tell when the Indian war
whoop will sound. Outside the bees
mum and buzz. and the wild flowers
nod their heads and send out through
the June air their fragrance. In the
forest a robin is calling.
All in the church are kneeling. Verse
after verse of a psalm is read. And
now the minister begins to speak.
Slowly his text he reads. The little
maids head mods. mods again, and
drops. Behind her, with long pole,
tipped with a wild turkeys claw
steals the sexton of fishingman. He
raps the little maid sharply upon tie
head. She raises it quickly, alright
ed. The stern faced elders stare at her
accusingly. Still the minister draws
on, Three hours have passed, -four,
five. An Grant bee huns swiftly
through the room, strikes twice against
the window and with an angry buzz
darts out of the door, The little
maids eyes follow it out to where in
the warm June sunshine the butter
flies dance and tumble. where by the
forest path the roses not their dainty
heady and the fragrance Of the bios
SONS fills the air. She listens to the
songs of the birds and to the rustlings
Of the forest leaves. And now the
minister has finished his sermon. The
congregation arises. Then, as the
sun is just setting, slowly out from the
church door come the villages.
Watching from side to side with gun
firmly clasped in his hands an Bible
pressed to his breast, strides the lit
tie maids father. Back through the
fovest path to the little wooden house
Then a supper of bread and milk and
cff to bed. Outside in the darkening
forest a robin chips sleepily. The
flowers nod their sweet, sleepy heads.
The little Puritan maids Sabbath IS
over.