n for you to sing

and louder swelled the chorus. All the while the singing master stood
trembling, shaking his white head hopelessly. "I did not mean for you to
sing," he pleaded, "I only meant my eyes were dim!"

His words merely spurred them on. On surged the voices, bass, soprano,
alto, tenor, in loud and mighty

I did not mean for you to sing,
I only meant my eyes were dim.

The singing master fumbled his woolly wristbands, thrust his hands deep
into pockets of coat and breeches, and peered searchingly about the
little stand where, it was plain to see, was nothing but the songbook
which he had dropped in his confusion. At last his trembling hand sought
the sparse foretop. There, bless you, rested the lost spectacles. He
yanked them to the bridge of his nose, and then, just as though he
didn't know all the time it was Drusilla Osborn behind the prank, he
turned his attention toward that pretty young miss.

"Drusilla"--you'd never suspect what he was up to--"we all favor your
voice in the ditty of My Son John. And you, Jonathan Witchcott, I don't
know of any other fellow that can better sing the part of the courting
man than you yourself. And I'm satisfied that no fairer maid was ever
wooed than Dru yonder. So lead off, lest the other fellow get the best
of you."

Almost before Jonathan was aware of it he was singing, with his eyes
turned yearningly upon Dru:

My man John, what can the matter be,
That I should love the lady fair and she should not love me?
She will not be my bride, my joy nor my dear,
And neither will she walk with me anywhere.

Then, lest a moment be lost, the singing master himself egged on the
swain by singing the part of the man John:

Court her, dearest Master, you court her without fear,
And you will win the lady in the space of half a year;
And she will be your bride, your joy and your dear,
And she will take a walk with you anywhere.

Encouraged by the smiling school, Jonathan Witchcott took up the song,
turning yearningly to Dru who now smiled coyly, head to one side, while
he entreated:

Oh, Madam, I will give to you a little greyhound,
And every hair upon its back shall cost a thousand pound,
If you will be my bride, my joy and my dear,
And you will take a walk with me anywhere.

Scarcely had the last note left his lips when Drusilla, now that all
eyes we