JAN as 
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.) 
J IMwas fully equal to tbe occasion. He pulled 
his chair up by the side of the minister 
and began: “Whatbe yer g’nter give usfer a 
talk termorrer?” 
“It was my intention to preach a purely 7 
doctrinal sermon to-morrow, the first of a 
somewhat extended series, but I shall doubt¬ 
less introduce a few practical ideas. My 
topic will be ‘ Can any good come out of 
Nazareth?’” 
“Wall, sir, I spose that’ll be a big thing. I 
hearei lots of the boys askin’ the same thing,” 
and Jim made haste to change the subject. 
No doubt he was a little afraid the minister 
would ask him in which direction Nazareth 
might be found. 
"Wall, how do ye like Drum Lake?” Jim 
asked at last. 
This was a hard question for the minister 
to answer. When, two days before, he had 
looked upon the snow drifts that coveiel all 
that was left of “St. Paul's Church,” he had 
made up his mind that Drum Lake was indeed 
a modern Sodom. But his duty lay within 
the town limits—he had been sent to “budd 
up” the church, and he therefore hoped to 
find some redeeming quality. So he skillfully 
compromised matters by assuring Jim that he 
was much impressed with the place. 
“Wall,I thought ye would be,” replied Jim, 
“didn’t you, Ben?” 
Mr. Stone made haste to back up his friend’s 
assertion. He added, as if to show his appre¬ 
ciation of the delicate compliment given 
Drum Lake: “Them idees is what knocks 
Parson.” 
“ I don’t s’pose,” continued Jim, as he held 
up his boot in front of the fire, “ that you ever 
done much work in the woods, did ye ? ” 
The minister assured him that he had never 
done any work of that character. He had 
often thought, however, that he would like to 
try it. 
“ Have ye ? What kind of work do ye s’pose 
ye’d like ter strike, chopin , jerkin’ a saw, or 
swampin', or what ?” 
The minister had not exactly decided as 
yet what department he would prefer to enter 
He would like some romantic or heroic work, 
he thought. 
“Wall, that’s the idee I hed,” said Jim, 
“ Somethin’ heroyic like. I say, Ben, whare 
do ye s’pose Parson could git a job on some 
heroyic work in case his preachin- don’t pay 
him big.” 
“Wall, Ihev au idee he cud git inter the 
cook’s shanty,” answered Mr. Stone, after a 
moment’s reflection. 
There was a pause in the conversation. The 
Rev. Grayling was anxious to get rid of his 
visitors, yet he did not dare to let them see 
it. Mr. Stone broke the silence at last. 
“Say, Parson, what did ye give for them 
boots ? ” 
But Jim ignored this question, so we can 
never know whether the bargain was a good 
one or not. Pretending to see the violin for 
the first time, Jim remarked, “Parson, I see 
you’ve got a fiddle there.” 
“ Yes, sir,” said the minister, timidly, “ I— 
I—play a little.” 
“Do ye? Wall, Parson, I believe you’re 
jest the man ter help us out of a big hole. 
Yer a regular Jonas fer us.” 
I do not know what historical character the 
Jonas referred to may be, the compatison was 
evidently very complimentary to the minis¬ 
ter. He looked at Jim in mild wonder, for he 
hardly liked to be called a “Jonas.” 
Jim was fairly started at last. “Ye see, 
Parson, we hev been thinkin’ of havin’ a 
sorter soray like down ter Cobb’s store this 
evenin’, singin’ an’ speakin’ ye know, an’ all 
the excetterays. They wuz a feller—Mr. 
Jacobs—cornin’ over from Carter’s ter jerk a 
bow fer us, but he’s gut full; thet is, he's met 
with an’ accident, so seein’s we ain't gut no 
music, couldn’t we git you ter go down an’ 
play us a tune or two? We’ll treat ye an’ 
feed ye well, an’ give yer a front seat. What 
do ye say?” and Jim leaned back in his chair 
to watch the effect of his words upon the 
minister. 
Poor Mr. Grayling! He was at his wits’ 
end surely. What snould he do? This must 
be the dance that his former visitor referred 
to. Think of it—he the Rector of St. Paul’s 
Church providing music for a dance. 
“But there will be dancing there, will there 
not?” he managed to say at last. 
“Wall, ’pears ter me I did hear one or two 
speak about dancin’, seein’ its so dost to 
Easter ye know. Parson, ’cause after ter¬ 
morrer’ ’ cordin’ to youse feller’s idees, we hev 
ter quit fer quite a piece of time”—Jim was a 
little mixed in regard to the lenten season. 
“But, my very dear sir, you must be aware 
of the fact that I am conscientiously opposed 
to dancing.” 
“So be I as fur as thet goes; ain’t you Ben?’ 
Mr. Stone hardly dared commit himself on 
this leading question. I hardly think he was 
sure of the meaning of the words “conscien¬ 
tiously opposed.” He fell back upon his 
usual—“that’s what knocks.” 
Jim braced himself for the final struggle. 
“ Now, then, Parson, we three be all agin this 
dancing bizness, an’ like enough if we brace 
right up to it we kin break it all down. You 
jest go down thar with me, an’ I’ll introduce 
ye ’round an’ give ye a good send-off. Then 
ye kin play a tune or two on yer fiddle, an’ 
I’ll bet ye’ll have the biggest mob ye ever 
preached ter when termorrer comes.” And 
Jim finished his remarks by looking round at 
the company as much as to say, “Who can 
beat this matchless programme ? ” 
What could the weak little man say in 
answer to this outburst of logic and eloquence? 
Even Mrs. McKelvey had deserted him, and 
when he turned his spectacles appealingly 
upon her, she, in answer to Jim’s supplicating 
wink, advised, " I think it would be a good 
thing for ’e, Parson.” 
“ But,” stammered the minister, evidently 
at the very last ditch of his defences, “ I had 
hoped to be able to devote this evening to the 
formation of a choir for our church service.” 
“ Wall, tell me what kind of a quire ye 
want, an’ I’ll get it ef it’s ter be found in Drum 
Lake,” Jim was bound to carry his point at 
all hazards. 
“ We usually form our choir of boys; four 
good voices would be sufficient for to-mor¬ 
row.” 
Jim was in ecstacy. “Parson, now yer 
striking sap. I kin git ye four ot the finest 
singers ye ever see ef ye will give us a lift 
with yer fiddle. Come, will ye ? ” 
The minister was fairly cornered. There 
was no possible escape for him now, and he 
was obliged to say that if Jim would provide 
the choir, he would attend the “ soray.” 
“Come on, Ben,” said Jim, when this point 
was settled, “ We’ll jest roust out them 
singers,” and he led the way to the door. 
Mr. Stone followed his leader. He was 
wondering how Jim could ever keep his prom¬ 
ise in regard to the choir. He had thought 
of suggesting himself as tenor with Mr. Mc¬ 
Kelvey as a possible bass, but he was willing 
to leave it all to Jim. He had a very high 
opinion of that gentleman as a manager, but 
when the new plan was disclosed, I really 
think Jim would have received at least one 
vote for President of the United States could 
he have been induced to run for that position. 
“Ben,” said Jim, “you jest go down that 
street an' coller the fust two boys you see. It 
don’t make no odds who they be. Jest coller 
’em an’bring’em in. Jest reskit ter me. I 
kin make ole spettycles think he’s gut the 
biggest quire that ever suBg.” 
Mr. Scone did not need much urging. He 
started down by the mill, while Jim went in 
the opposite direction. 
If Jim had had plenty of time, he could easily 
have found four boys who would gladly 
have helped him out of his trouble. But time 
was short, and he decided to “coller” a choir, 
and trust to his great powers of persuasion to 
keep them in trim. 
As Ben walked by the old mill, he noticed a 
slight ray of light stealing out through a 
crack in the door. This was such au unusual 
thing in decaying Drum Lake that he stopped 
even his present urgent errand. He put his 
eye to the crack, and made a hasty examina¬ 
tion. There must have been some startling 
act on the boards, for he turned, and ran with 
all his speed in the direction Jim had taken. 
Jim was not meeting with great success in 
his hunt. He was much surpised when Btn 
came up behind him at such l eadlong speed. 
“Jim” said the messenger—“I’ve gut ’em 
dead. Andy Brown an’ Mox Jensen has gone 
down ter Bryan’s Mill to fight. They's a dozen 
boys down there ter see it out. We kin git 
the Parson’s quire there jest like rolling off 
frum a log.” 
(TO BE CONTINUED.) 
THE POST OFFICE CLUB. 
rr^HE parrot was actually happy last Satur- 
I day night. He danced a sort of- jig on 
the hot stove-pipe and winked his red eye 
furiously. 
“ Farmin’ don’t pay! Farmin’ don’t payl” 
Oh! how he croaked it out! Didn’t it do 
him lots of good to thus pulverize the oppo¬ 
sition with his unanswerable argument? The 
parrot had reason for his extra energy. We 
had just had a funeral in our neighborhood; 
that backed him up wonderfully. It was old 
Mrs. Grinder that we buried. Her’s had been 
a sad life. Old Grinder started in, years ago, 
with the idea that the sole object of life was 
to make all the money he possibly could at as 
little outlay as possible. I guess he succeeded, 
but w T hile he was doing it he rubbed all the 
fertility out of his farm, all the happiness 
and beauty out of his wife’s life, and just 
about all the charity out of his own heart. 
His boys were smart; they had sense enough 
to run away and get into something that 
manufactured happiness. The daughter stood 
it as long as she could for her mother’s sake— 
then she ran away with a tin peddler. The 
old man has a good, round sum tucked 
away in the county bank. I wonder how 
much it was worth to him last Saturday as he 
sat by the head of the coffin with his face 
buried in his great, rough hands. How piti¬ 
ful it was! That poor, thin, patient face! 
How she had toiled and slaved and carried 
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the cross all through these years. It all came 
back to him. He could not have starved his 
soul so completely that it could not respond 
to that flood of memories. How true, how 
faithful she had been to him! The tenderne-s 
came too late. She was dead! Why couldn’t 
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It came too late, she was dead. Tbe parrot 
was right about old Grinder’s farming. It 
didn’t pay—it was a losing business all through 
—and yet, think what it might have paid 
him! 
Well, the fact is that the day’s proceedings 
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body felt able to argue with the parrot as it 
danced on the stove-pipe and croaked: 
“Farmin’ don’t pay! Farmin’ don’t pay!!” 
SMALL PICA. 
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HOMES AND INVESTMENTS. 
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