THE DRUM LAKE EASTER SERVICE. 
A story of the Michigan Pine Woods. 
BY HERBERT W. COLLINGWOOD. 
Copyrighted by the Rural New-Yorker. 
(all rights reserved.) 
Mrs. McKelvey was a stout, black-haired, 
rosy-cheeked woman, the sworn enemy of 
dirt and idleness, and the terror of Mr. Mc¬ 
Kelvey. To dirt and laziness, she seemed 
like a very demon of darkness ; to cleanness 
and order, she seemed a mighty angel of light; 
while to Mr. McKelvey she could be either, 
just as she saw fit. 
The baby was, of course, the most wonder¬ 
ful specimen of infantile humanity that was 
ever known. It is not necessary for me to 
describe this infant wonder. You will find 
him in every well regulated family. 
Mr. McKelvey was generally kept in the 
background as though unworthy of notice. 
But this is Easter, so we will be generous and 
give him the benefit of a few remarks. A 
little, thin, stooping Englishman about as 
large as the Rev. Mr. Grayling. A thick, 
heavy beard and a mass of hair that stuck up 
in fierce disorder, gave him quite a ferocious 
aspect, though he was in reality, the very 
mildest of little men. His most striking 
characteristics are a pair of immense feet, 
and a voice of most wonderful volume. The 
poor man was always surprising people with 
his voice. If you met him in the dark, and 
heard him talk, a cold shudder ran all over 
you. You imagined some cold-blooded mon¬ 
ster as the possessor of such a voice; when 
lights were brought, and you saw the very 
mild, little man, you went away feeling that 
there were many wrongs in this world that 
should be righted. 
Mr. McKelvey’s household duties were not 
such as required an extra amount of brain 
power. To him were given such lighter and 
delicate jobs as washing dishes, splitting 
wood, or tending the baby. It may have 
been on account of the vocal freak above 
mentioned that Mr. McKelvey was ex¬ 
pected to wait on the boarders in silence. 
Mrs. McKelvey reasoned that to have her 
husband request a stranger to perform even 
so simple an operation as passing the pork, 
would quickly clear the table of transient 
guests. So the small man walked silently 
about the table, and held his peace, even 
though Jack Gray tried his best to make him 
talk. 
But there was one duty in which Mr. Mc¬ 
Kelvey’s voice reigned supreme. That was 
known in the classic language of Drum Lake 
as “hollerin’ for chuck.” Mrs. McKelvey con¬ 
sidered a bell as an entirely superfluous piece 
of furniture as long as she was the possessor 
of such a voice as her husband’s. 
For six times each day therefore, half an 
hour before each meal, and again when the 
meal was ready to be served, did the little 
man appear at the door and shout in his most 
stentorian tones Ine name of tne coming 
meal. No one can tell how much the little 
Englishman enjoyed these brief periods of 
power. He was king for the time surely. 
Who could stand against him while his voice 
went ringing through the deserted streets, 
making itself heard even above the din of 
Brian’s mill. Every one in Drum Lake knew 
Bill McKelvey’s “holler,” and watches and 
cl jcbs were timed by it. It had a sentimental 
value too—Jack Gray often said that when he 
was extra hungry, the “holler” could make 
him forget his girl “till chuck was eet.” 
This melodious strain startled the “fool” as 
he stood by the window. He started away at 
firs , thinking that supper must be ready, but 
the thought came to him that this was simply 
the first call. There would still be half an 
hour before supper, so he went back to the 
wiudow. 
There must have been a certain fascination 
in the melancholy prospect, for the “fool” 
brought a chair from the rude platform, and 
sat down upon it wnere he could look up the 
silent street. 
The window did not afford the best possible 
opportunity for observation. Of the window 
panes that came within the range of the Rev. 
Mr. Grayling’s head, one was filled with an 
old hat; another was glazed with a piece of 
carpet, while a pine shingle had been tacked 
over another. The remaining three were so 
covered with frost as to be almost useless 
to serve the purpose for which they were in¬ 
tended. 
Yet I hardly think this troubled the “fool’ 
very much after all. To be sure, he scraped 
a small hole on one of the frost-covered panes 
and seemed to be looking through it, yet I 
doubt if he saw the silent streets, the snow 
drifts, the dark, desolate houses, or even the 
ruins of St. Raul’s Church over on the hill, 
at all. 
It was a women’s face that looked in at the 
Rev. Mr. Grayling that night. A woman’s 
face—4hink of it—a women’s face—and he a 
minister on the eve of Easter. 
A beautiful face it was, with great, deep 
blue eyes like wells of heaven; hair that fell 
like a shower of gold over the white neck and 
forehead; lips like a dewy rose-bud, and the 
dearest little dimple in the chin. A beauti¬ 
ful face; and yet as the “fool” looked at it, 
there seemed to come a sneering "curl to the 
rep lips, and cruel little dents at the corners 
of the mouth. 
A beautiful face, and the Rev. Mr. Gray¬ 
ling seemed to know it well. He put up bis 
thin hands before his eyes as if to shut out the 
picture, and a mighty sob shook the brave 
little man’s breast. Why did she come to him 
in this lonely place where he needed all of his 
manhood simply to do bis duty? Had she not 
tortured him enough already? He thought it 
all over as he sat in the bare room with his 
head buried in his hands. How he bad 
loved that woman! Yes, he, the poor insignifi¬ 
cant wreck of a man. Years ago, he would 
have given his life for one curl from that 
beautiful head. Would have given, did I say? 
Had he not given more than his life? It all 
came back to him. The vow she had made, 
the great boundless life that seemed stretch¬ 
ing out before him, the hope and ambition the 
sneering, cruel letter, the cold disdain, the 
sickness, the slow drifting back to life, the 
longing to die, the wrecked life and the shat¬ 
tered ambition. And here he was at last; a 
man, yet unable to command a man’s respect; 
a clergyman, yet without influence: with an 
education, yet with no heart to use it; 
his only hope in the grave, his only comfort 
to knovy that man must die at last. 
Now, are not these dreadful memories to 
come up at Easter? It is no wonder that the 
“fool” tried tc drive them away. He raised 
his head with an eifort, and looked out at the 
window—the face was still there, but it had 
changed. The hair hung down now in wild 
disorder, the face was flushed, and showed 
marks of dissipation, and the beautiful mouth 
had grown coarse. 
The minister almost cried out when he 
thought how her romance had really ended. 
The husband she had chosen had deserted her, 
she had come back to her farther’s house only 
to be cursed and driven away. She had sunk 
from their sight, and no one knew where she 
had wandered. 
The Rev. Mr. Grayling found himself won¬ 
dering what he would do now. Could he ever 
forgiv e her? He was afraid not. The awful¬ 
ness of such a thought roused him at last from 
his reverie, and he started down the stairs 
towards his own room. 
“It is strange, ”he said to himself, “how 
these old thoughts will come to me. I thought 
I had buried them forever. It must be the 
ribbon that called them up. I was looking at 
it to-day. I must destroy it. I should have 
done so long ago.” 
He walked slowly to his own room, and put 
down the candle on the table. A small 
leather trunk stood in one corner of the room, 
and the “fool” with a "key which he took from 
his pocket, unlocked it, and threw back the 
cover. After some little fumbling, for the 
candle gave but an uncertain light, and it 
may be that the great spectacles were dimmed 
with tears, he pulled out a small paper pack¬ 
age from the very bottom. 
The small hands trembled as he untied the 
red twine, aud disclosed a faded, blue ribbon, 
and a long curl of golden hair. It was the 
curl for which he had given his life. How 
small it seemed to him now! Down in one 
corner of the rib Don was written, “from M. 
B. to H. A. S.G. 
He did not kiss the foolish token, he was too 
much of a machine for that. He sat with 
the little package on his lap, looking over the 
great spectacles into the past. 
“I must burn them,” he said at last. “I 
should have done so, long ago. ” He held out 
his hand to throw the package into the stove, 
when a heavy step came slowly and hesita- 
ingly along the passage that led to his room. 
The minister thrust the ribbon and curl into 
his pocket,blushing at the idea of being caught 
with such articles in hand, just in time to say 
“Come in ” as the heavy step halted before his 
door. 
In response to the minister’s invitation, the 
door opened aud a lumberman, red shirt, 
beard, boots and all, walked bashfully in and 
stood before the “fool.” 
“Good evenin’, Parson,” he said with an at¬ 
tempt at politeness; “My name is Gammon— 
Bill Gammon,” p’raps you’ve heard tell of me? 
“I’m the man ez licked”—butMr. Gammon 
suddenly remembered that a reputation such 
as he was about to give would have small 
weight with the minister. We shall never 
know therefore who it was that he “licked.” 
“ Good evening, William,” responded the 
Rev. Mr. Grayling, holding out his hand for 
his visitor to shake; “I am glad to see you.” 
“ Be ye?” said Bill; “Wall that’s hearty,” 
and he sat in the chair that the minister of¬ 
fered him and crossed one leg over the other. 
The “fool” and his guest sat and looked at each 
other in silence for a time. Bill evidently 
had some weighty bus iness in view, though 
he hardly knew how to open it. At last he 
leaned over to the minister and almost 
w hispered “ Say, Parson, you write verses, 
don’t ye?” 
The “fool” blushed like a child. He did 
write poetry now and then, though he was 
heartily ashamed of it. He was too truthful, 
however, to deny the charge, so he stammer¬ 
ingly admitted that now and then he had 
composed poetry. 
“I knowed it,” said Bill exultingly, “I told 
the boys that you wuz jist the man to get me 
out of a bad hole,” and in his exultation he 
struck the little minister a blow on the back 
that nearly knocked him from his chair. It is 
a fact tnat Bill had informed a few of 
his friends that “thet four-eyed Parson wuz 
jist fool enough ter write verses.” 
The “fool” looked in mild wonder at Bill’s 
forcible congratulation, and that worthy made 
haste to apologize. He explained his enand. 
“Ye see, Parson, I’ve made up my mind ter 
cum and hear ye set it up ter us termorrer. I 
ain’t no great religin man myself, but when a 
man comes along with somethin’ new, I alius 
believe in lettin’ him prove himself one thing 
or ’nuther. So I’ll be thar tomorrer on a 
frunt seat.” 
Having thus placed the minister under 
some slight obligation, he proceeded to out¬ 
line his own wishes. 
“Ye see. Parson, there’s go’nterbe a sorter 
dance or meetin’ like down ter Cobb’s store, 
an’ Jeff Price is cornin’ over ter sing. Now I 
ain’t gut no hemlock tree of a voice myself, 
an’ I wan ter jist sing the throat offen Jeff, an’ 
I ken do it if I kin git a song. My songs is 
all old, an I wanter see ef I kin git you ter 
line me out 6um verses so’st Drum Lake kin 
show up on top. What do ye say?” 
The Rev. Mr. Grayling had listened very 
patiently to these remarks. Mrs. McKelvey 
had told him that he must humor the boys a 
little at first, and get their good will. “Play 
with ’em at fust, sir,” she advised, “h’an 
when ye git ’em in ’and, ’old on by ’em.” Why 
would not this be a grand chance to enlist the 
sympathies of Drum Lake? He thought of 
some songs he nad written years Detore—poor, 
little things, they were that had been 
sung by a friend. He had a copy of them 
left. Perhaps they would do. 
“What kind of a song did you desire, Wil¬ 
liam?” he asked mildly. 
“Wall, somethin’ ez’l clean out Jeff. You 
know, Parson, you’ve been ter sech places. 
Make it so’st I kin sing it ter one of my tunes. 
1 sings ‘Cause I’m only a tramp.’ ‘The 
HickoryYree’ an’ ‘The Little Widder Dunn,’” 
and Bill named over his extensive list with a 
pardonable pride. * 
(TO BE CONTINUED.) 
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