big pair of buckskin mittens on the little table under the desk. When he
is fairly seated in his corner of the pew, with his elbow upon the top
rail,--almost the only man who can comfortably reach it,--you observe
that he spreads his brawny fingers over his scalp in an exceedingly
cautious manner; and you innocently think again that it is very
hypocritical in a deacon to be pretending to lean upon his hand when he
is only keeping his wig straight.

After the morning service they have an "hour's intermission," as the
preacher calls it; during which the old men gather on a sunny side of
the building, and, after shaking hands all around, and asking after the
"folks" at home, they enjoy a quiet talk about the crops. One man, for
instance, with a twist in his nose, would say, "It's raether a growin'
season;" and another would reply, "Tolerable, but potatoes is feelin'
the wet badly." The stout deacon approves this opinion, and confirms it
by blowing his nose very powerfully.

Two or three of the more worldly-minded ones will perhaps stroll over to
a neighbor's barnyard, and take a look at his young stock, and talk of
prices, and whittle a little; and very likely some two of them will make
a conditional "swop" of "three likely ye'rlings" for a pair of
"two-year-olds."

The youngsters are fond of getting out into the graveyard, and comparing
jackknives, or talking about the schoolmaster or the menagerie, or, it
may be, of some prospective "travel" in the fall,--either to town, or
perhaps to the "sea-shore."

Afternoon service hangs heavily; and the tall chorister is by no means
so blithe, or so majestic in the toss of his head, as in the morning. A