nap of their jaws as they vainly
sought to lay hold of the offender. Now and then, between some of the
sixthlies, seventhlies, and eighthlies, you might hear some old
patriarch giving himself a rousing shake, and pitpatting soberly up the
aisles, as if to see that every thing was going on properly, after which
he would lie down and compose himself to sleep again; and certainly this
was as improving a way of spending Sunday as a good Christian dog could
desire.

But the glory of our meeting house was its singers' seat--that empyrean
of those who rejoiced in the divine, mysterious art of fa-sol-la-ing,
who, by a distinguishing grace and privilege, could "raise and fall" the
cabalistical eight notes, and move serene through the enchanted region
of flats, sharps, thirds, fifths, and octaves.

There they sat in the gallery that lined three sides of the house,
treble, counter, tenor, and bass, each with its appropriate leaders and
supporters; there were generally seated the bloom of our young people;
sparkling, modest, and blushing girls on one side, with their ribbons
and finery, making the place where they sat as blooming and lively as a
flower garden, and fiery, forward, confident young men on the other. In
spite of its being a meeting house, we could not swear that glances were
never given and returned, and that there was not often as much of an
approach to flirtation as the distance and the sobriety of the place
would admit. Certain it was, that there was no place where our village
coquettes attracted half so many eyes or led astray half so many hearts.

But I have been talking of singers all this time, and neglected to
mention the Magnus Apollo of the whole concern, the redoubtable
chorister, who occupied the seat of honor in the midst of the middle
gallery, and exactly opposite to the minister. Certain it is that the
good man, if he were alive, would never believe it; for no person ever
more magnified his office, or had a more thorough belief in his own
greatness and supremacy, than Zedekiah Morse. Methinks I can see him now
as he appeared to my eyes on that first Sunday, when he shot up from
behind the gallery, as if he had been sent up by a spring. He was a
little man, whose fiery-red hair, brushed straight up on the top of his
head, had an appearance as vigorous and lively as real flame; and this,
added to the ardor and determination of all his motions, had obtained
for him the surname of the "Burning Bush." He se