dows, a deep sense
of the abiding peace of Christian communion settled upon us. At this
supreme moment someone murmured in an awe-stricken whisper:

"WILL you look at Bones?"

We looked. Bones had entered the church and gone up in the gallery
through a pardonable ignorance and modesty; but, perceiving his mistake,
was now calmly walking along the gallery rail before the astounded
worshipers. Reaching the end, he paused for a moment, and carelessly
looked down. It was about fifteen feet to the floor below--the simplest
jump in the world for the mountain-bred Bones. Daintily, gingerly,
lazily, and yet with a conceited airiness of manner, as if, humanly
speaking, he had one leg in his pocket and were doing it on three, he
cleared the distance, dropping just in front of the chancel, without a
sound, turned himself around three times, and then lay comfortably down.

Three deacons were instantly in the aisle, coming up before the eminent
divine, who, we fancied, wore a restrained smile. We heard the hurried
whispers: "Belongs to them." "Quite a local institution here, you know."
"Don't like to offend sensibilities;" and the minister's prompt "By no
means," as he went on with his service.

A short month ago we would have repudiated Bones; today we sat there
in slightly supercilious attitudes, as if to indicate that any affront
offered to Bones would be an insult to ourselves, and followed by our
instantaneous withdrawal in a body.

All went well, however, until the minister, lifting the large Bible
from the communion table and holding it in both hands before him, walked
toward a reading stand by the altar rails. Bones uttered a distinct
growl. The minister stopped.

We, and we alone, comprehended in a flash the whole situation. The Bible
was nearly the size and shape of one of those soft clods of sod which we
were in the playful habit of launching at Bones when he lay half-asleep
in the sun, in order to see him cleverly evade it.

We held our breath. What was to be done? But the opportunity belonged
to our leader, Jeff Briggs--a confoundedly good-looking fellow, with the
golden mustache of a northern viking and the curls of an Apollo. Secure
in his beauty and bland in his self-conceit, he rose from the pew, and
stepped before the chancel rails.

"I would wait a moment, if I were you, sir," he said, respectfully, "and
you will see that he will go out quietly."

"What is wrong?" whispered the minister in some concern.