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“Pretty good this,” he said to me, pumping his feet.

“What?” I said.

“Tune. Sharon is for free silver.”

“Do you think they will catch your allusion?” I asked him.

“No. But I have a way of enjoying a thing by myself.” And he pumped away, playing with tasteful variations until the hall was full and the singing-class assembled in gloves and ribbons.

They opened the ceremonies for us by rendering “Sweet and Low” very happily; and I trusted it was an omen.

Sharon was hearty, and we had “Sweet and Low” twice. Then the speaking began, and the speakers were welcomed, coming and going, with mild and friendly demonstrations. Nothing that one would especially mark went wrong until Reuben Gadsden. He strode to the middle of the boards, and they creaked beneath his tread. He stood a moment in large glittering boots and with hair flat and prominently watered. As he straightened from his bow his suspender-buttons came into view, and remained so for some singular internal reason, while he sent his right hand down into the nearest pocket and began his oratory.

“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France,” he said, impressively, and stopped.

We waited, and presently he resumed:

“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France.” He took the right hand out and put the left hand in.

“It is sixteen or seventeen years,” said he, and stared frowning at his boots.

I found the silence was getting on my nerves. I felt as if it were myself who was drifting to idiocy, and tremulous empty sensations began to occur in my stomach. Had I been able to recall the next sentence, I should have prompted him.

“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France,” said the orator, rapidly.

And down deep back among the men came a voice, “Well, I guess it must be, Reub.”

This snapped the tension. I saw Reuben’s boots march away; Mr. Eastman came from behind the bunting and spoke (I suppose) words of protest. I could not hear them, but in a minute, or perhaps two, we grew calm, and the speaking continued.

There was no question what they thought of Guy and Leola. He conquered the back of the room. They called his name, they blessed him with endearing audible oaths, and even the ladies smiled at his pleasant, honest face–the ladies, except Mrs. Mattern. She sat near Mrs. Jeffries, and throughout Guy’s “Blue-Jay” fanned herself, exhibiting a well-sustained inattention. She might have foreseen that Mrs. Jeffries would have her turn. When the “Death of Paul Dombey” came, and handkerchiefs began to twinkle out among the audience, and various noises of grief were rising around us, and the men themselves murmured in sym- pathy, Mrs. Jeffries not only preserved a suppressed-hilarity countenance, but managed to cough twice with a cough that visibly bit into Mrs. Mattern’s soul.

But Leola’s appealing cadences moved me also. When Paul was dead, she made her pretty little bow, and we sat spellbound, then gave her applause surpassing Guy’s. Unexpectedly I found embarrassment of choice dazing me, and I sat without attending to the later speakers. Was not successful humor more difficult than pathos? Were not tears more cheaply raised than laughter? Yet, on the other hand, Guy had one prize, and where merit was so even–I sat, I say, forgetful of the rest of the speakers, when suddenly I was aware of louder shouts of welcome, and I awaked to Josey Yeatts bowing at us.

“Spit it out, Josey!” a large encouraging voice was crying in the back of the hall. “We’ll see you through.”

“Don’t be scared, Josey!” yelled another.

Then Josey opened his mouth and rhythmically rattled the following:

“I love little pussy her coat is so warm
And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm
I’ll sit by the fi-yer and give her some food
And pussy will love me because I am good.”