"Ring out, sweet bells,
O'er woods and dells
Your lovely strains repeat,
While happy throngs
With joyous songs
Each accent gladly greet."

Christmas morning in the old Tory Hill Meeting-House was felt by all of
the persons who were present in that particular year to be a most
exciting and memorable occasion.

The old sexton quite outdid himself, for although he had rung the bell
for more than thirty years, he had never felt greater pride or joy in his
task. Was not his son John home for Christmas, and John's wife, and a
grandchild newly named Nathaniel for himself? Were there not spareribs
and turkeys and cranberries and mince pies on the pantry shelves, and
barrels of rosy Baldwins in the cellar and bottles of mother's root beer
just waiting to give a holiday pop? The bell itself forgot its age and
the suspicion of a crack that dulled its voice on a damp day, and,
inspired by the bright, frosty air, the sexton's inspiring pull, and the
Christmas spirit, gave out nothing but joyous tones.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! It fired the ambitions of star scholars about to
recite hymns and sing solos. It thrilled little girls expecting dolls
before night. It excited beyond bearing dozens of little boys being
buttoned into refractory overcoats. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Mothers'
fingers trembled when they heard it, and mothers' voices cried: "If that
is the second bell, the children will never be ready in time! Where are
the overshoes? Where are the mittens? Hurry, Jack! Hurry, Jennie!"
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! "Where's Sally's muff? Where's father's fur cap?