Part 23 (1/2)
”Very well,” agreed Hannah hurriedly. ”Peter, you may tell us the Golden Text.”
”Let me,” cried Elsmere. ”I know 'bout lambs. Mary had a little lamb, fleeciswhitissnow.”
”Elsmere,” said Hannah sternly. ”I asked Peter to tell us the Golden Text.”
”Mine is a walker,” said Peter loudly.
Hannah looked mystified.
”Pooh!” remarked the Hamilton girl loftily. ”That ain't this Sunday's.
'Wine is a mocker' was to-morrow's. 'Tain't this Sunday's.”
”What is this Sunday's?” asked Hannah hopefully. ”Doesn't anybody know?
'I am'--don't you remember? 'I am the good--':
”I am the good--” Peter got so far and then stopped, stolid.
”I know,” cried Elsmere once more. ”Put in his thumb, pull out a plum, good boy am I!”
The others snickered, and Hannah bit her lip. ”No. 'I am the good shepherd.' It was Jesus who said it. Now all of you say it together.”
Lamblike, they followed her lead, and she succeeded in pa.s.sing over several minutes. But they soon grew restive again, and one little hand pawed the air.
”Well, what is it?”
”The Grahams is coming to our house to dinner.”
”That's nice. Now we will talk about the shepherd psalm. How many of you know it?”
There was a moment of doubt. ”Shall not want?” ventured one of the older ones presently.
”Yes, that's it exactly,” said Hannah gladly. ”You've all heard it lots of times. Now I'll recite it for you, and then you can tell me what it means.”
With the Bible prudently open to save her from any possible embarra.s.sment at a sudden lapse of memory, she began slowly to recite the psalm, pausing for explanatory comments as she went along.
”I was in a valley onct,” said a sleepy boy, who had contributed nothing so far to the morning's entertainment. ”I fell off'n the dock and the boat was clost up to me, and that was a valley.”
”How'd you get out?” asked several with interest.
”Man pulled me out,” and the speaker subsided.
Hannah stole a glance at her watch, as she finished the psalm. She had strung it out as long as she could, but there were still several minutes to dispose of.
”Now I wonder who can tell me what that was all about?” she asked, with feigned sprightliness. ”I think you can, the little girl with the red dress. What's your name? O, yes, Gwendolen.”
Every one turned to look at Gwendolen. She stuck her finger in her mouth, presumably to stem the tide of speech, for as she withdrew it the words fell out over one another all in one breath.
”Don't want anyfing to eat. Lay down in the gra.s.s an' roll. Put kerosene on my head. Can't git any more in my cup, all spillin' over.”