n in
despair to a new reading (it must be the twentieth) of the preface to
Dr. Dwight's Version of the Psalms.

The singing has a charm for you. There is a long, thin-faced,
flax-haired man, who carries a tuning-fork in his waistcoat-pocket, and
who leads the choir. His position is in the very front rank of gallery
benches facing the desk; and by the time the old clergyman has read two
verses of the psalm, the country chorister turns around to his little
group of aids--consisting of the blacksmith, a carroty-headed
schoolmaster, two women in snuff-colored silks, and a girl in pink
bonnet--to announce the tune.

This being done in an authoritative manner, he lifts his long
music-book--glances again at his little company,--clears his throat by a
powerful ahem, followed by a powerful use of a bandanna
pocket-handkerchief,--draws out his tuning-fork, and waits for the
parson to close his reading. He now reviews once more his
company,--throws a reproving glance at the young woman in the pink hat,
who at the moment is biting off a stout bunch of fennel,--lifts his
music-book,--thumps upon the rail with his fork,--listens
keenly,--gives a slight _ahem_,--falls into the cadence,--swells into a
strong _crescendo_,--catches at the first word of the line as if he were
afraid it might get away,--turns to his company,--lifts his music-book
with spirit, gives it a powerful slap with the disengaged hand, and with
a majestic toss of the head soars away, with half the women below
straggling on in his wake, into some such brave old melody
as--LITCHFIELD!

Being a visitor, and in the Squire's pew, you are naturally an object of
considerable attention to the girls about your age, as well as to a
great many fat old ladies in iron spectacles, who mortify you
excessively by patting you under the chin after church; and insist upon
mistaking you for Frank; and force upon you very dry cookies spiced with
caraway seeds.

You keep somewhat shy of the young ladies, as they are rather stout for
your notions of beauty, and wear thick calf-skin boots. They compare
very poorly with Jenny. Jenny, you think, would be above eating
gingerbread between service. None of them, you imagine, ever read
"Thaddeus of Warsaw," or ever used a colored glass seal with a Cupid and
a dart upon it. You are quite certain they never did, or they could not
surely wear such dowdy gowns, and suck their thumbs as they do!

The farmers you have a high respect for,--parti