admiration. There was a steep flight of stairs leading up to it on each
side, and an enormous umbrella-like sounding-board was poised heavily
above it. The pulpit itself was round and tail and hung above the heads
of the congregation, making the practice of looking up at the good old
minister a neck-aching process. Directly beneath the pulpit was a seat
facing the people. It was empty now, but a hundred years ago, had the
lads but known it, the deacons had sat there and the "tithing-man,"
whose duty it was to go about waking up the dozers with his long wand.
It was called the Deacon's Seat, and if sometimes the deacons themselves
had dropped off into peaceful naps--what then? Did the "tithing-man"
nudge them sharply with his stick, or was he dozing, too?

There are still a few of these old landmarks left in the country. Now
and then we run across them and get a distinct flavor of old times, and
it is worth going a good many miles to see the inside of one of them.
By just shutting one's eyes and "making believe" a little, how easy it
would be to conjure up our dear old grandmothers in their great scoop
bonnets, and grandfathers with their high coat collars coming nearly to
their bald crowns! And the Deacon's Seat under the pulpit--how easy to
make believe the deacons in claw-hammer coats and queer frilled shirt
bosoms!

The people Jot and Kent saw were ordinary, modern people, and their
modern clothes looked oddly out of date against the quaint old setting.
Jot thought with a twinge of sympathy how hard the seats must feel, and
how shoulders must ache against the perfectly straight-up-and-down
backs. He felt a sudden pity for his great-grandmother and great-uncles
and aunts.

This especial old church, box-like and unchurchly without and ancient