ce came at last.

Taking from the stand the songbook, Philomel placed a hand behind him
and announced with quiet decorum, "Those who have brought their
notebooks will please open them up to page--" he faltered, fumbling the
leaves of his book. "Open to page--" still groping was Philomel Whiffet
and squinting at the faded pages. "Those who have not brought their
notebooks can look on with someone else." Trying to act unconcerned was
the singing master. "Turn to one--of our--old favorites," poor old
Whiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book. "My eyes--are
dim"--he mumbled in confusion--"I--cannot see." Vainly he searched his
vest pockets, the pockets of his coat. "--I've left my specs at home,"
he blurted in desperation.

With that the tantalizing Drusilla Osborn, from her bench at the back of
the room, nudged the girl beside her and, pointing to the staff of music
left on the wall where Philomel had placed it,--Dru began to hum.
"You've pitched it too shaller," whispered the other girl, and quickly
Dru hummed a lower register until her companion caught the pitch; then
the two sang loud and shrill:

My eyes are dim, I cannot see,
My specs I left at home.

And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had happened, sopranos, altos, and
bass had taken up the tune. Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat on
the very front bench where anybody could see with half an eye that the
singing master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his booming bass with
all his might and main. Hadn't Drusilla pitched the tune? What else was
the doting Jonathan to do? The two had been courting full six months,
just to spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias, the
patient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of the very last
bench straight across from the adored Drusilla, sitting where anyone
could see that Dru was playing a prank, when he heard the mighty boom of
his rival, joined in with his high tenor:

My eyes are dim, I cannot see,
My specs I left at home.

Louder and stronger roared Jonathan's bass. And Mathias, not to be
excelled, raised his shrill notes higher still, sweeping the sopranos
along with him.

Bethel church house fairly trembled on its foundation. Poor old Philomel
Whiffet raised his hands in dismay: "I did not mean for you to sing!" he
cried, and again Drusilla took up his words:

I did not mea