HOW I BECAME A NATURALISE n 



pickle. We all went there, rich and poor. There 

 was no organ in it in my days. The mixed choir sang, 

 accompanied by clarionet, viol, and oboe, and real 

 good old-fashioned singing it was. In the same pew 

 with me and my folks sat a shoemaker, a little man, 

 who came in a swallow-tailed brown coat and a stiff 

 stand-up collar reaching to his ears, knee-breeches, 

 worsted stockings, and low shoes. He took snuff, 

 and what a nose he had wherein to put it. He got 

 the nickname of ' Grunter,' because he went to sleep 

 in church as a rule, and snored. Never shall I forget 

 one particular Sunday afternoon. About the middle 

 of the service two starlings had come in and perched 

 on one of the pillars, where they had whistled and 

 chattered their loudest, but no notice had been taken 

 of so common an event as that. But later on the 

 Grunter fell asleep. From hard breathing the sounds 

 in his corner gradually increased until they became 

 pig-like grunts and whines, whilst his nose went 

 working and twisting like a mole's. 



I saw a head rise up from the next pew, and a 

 strong hand grasped the Grunter's collar. One good 

 shake, and then the shoemaker's voice was raised 

 loudly, ' For evermore, amen. Eh ! What ! ' 



Forgetting the solemnity of the place and time, 

 I burst out in a perfect yell of laughter, which some 



