n when he started forth on a winter's
night, "Mind your wristban's!" his wife would say, "and your spectacles!
Don't forget your spectacles! Your sight's not sharp as it once was. And
your tuning fork, Pa. Don't forget to put it in your pocket." It pleased
the old singing master in those days to have Clarissa feel that he was
dependent upon her. And now that she was gone, for ten long years, those
familiar words running through old Philomel Whiffet's thoughts were all
he had left to remind him of his needs when he started out to singing
school.

Slowly he plodded on through the snow, his eyes raised now and again to
the light of the heating stove in the church house.

Arrived at the door he stomped the snow from his well-greased boots and
went in. Untying the flaps of the coonskin cap he moved across the
floor. "Good evening, boys," he greeted cheerily, unwinding now the
muffler from his throat.

"Good evening, sir!" the early birds, Jonathan and Ephraim Scaggs,
answered together. It wasn't Mathias Oneby, after all, whose shadow he
had seen against the wall. At once the singing master knew why Ephraim
Scaggs was there. His sister, Tizzie Scaggs, was head-over-heels in love
with Jonathan Witchcott. She was trying every scheme to get him away
from Drusilla Osborn. Yes, Tizzie had sent her brother Ephraim along
with Jonathan to make the fire so he could drop in a few words about
her; how apt she, Tizzie, was at many tasks, what a fine wife she'd make
for some worthy fellow. Philomel Whiffet knew the way of young folks.
And Drusilla knew the ways of Tizzie. She was really wary of her and
watchful, though Dru would never own it to Jonathan Witchcott.

Even though the snow was nearly knee-deep it didn't keep folks from
singing school. Already they were crowding in. So by the time old
Whiffet was ready to begin every bench was filled. Young men and old in
homespun and high boots, mothers and young girls in shawls and
fascinators, talking and laughing at a lively clip as they took their
places: sopranos in the front benches opposite the bass singers; behind
them, altos and tenors.

"I'm sorry to see that some of our high singers are not here this
evening." The old singing master from his place behind the stand
surveyed the gathering, squinting uncertainly by the light of the oil
lamp. High on the wall it hung without chimney, its battered tin
reflector dimmed by soot of many nights' accumulation. He picked up the
notebook