with a resolute determination to be in on the death of the sad rite.

Some are wrecked among the dizzy altitudes, others persevere through
uncharted shoals, all make some kind of a noisy noise, and lo, it is
accomplished; and intense relief sits enthroned on every dewy brow.

In the crowded church, the minister announces the "Battle Hymn of
the Republic," and the organist, armed with plenary powers, crashes
into the giddy old tune, dragging the congregation resistingly along
at a hurdy gurdy pace till all semblance of text or meaning is
irretrievably lost.

Happy are they when the refrain, "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,"
provides a temporary respite from the shredded syllables and
scrambled periods, and one may light, as it were, and catch up with
himself and the organist.

At the close of an outdoor public meeting the chairman, with fatuous
ineptitude, shouts that everybody will sing three verses of
"America." Granting that the tune is pitched comfortably, the first
verse marches with vigor and certitude, but not for long; dismay
soon smites the crowd in sections as the individual consciousness
backs and fills amid half learned lines.

The trick of catching hopefully at a neighbor's phrase usually
serves to defeat itself, as it unmasks the ignorance of said
neighbor, and the tune ends in a sort of polyglot mouthing which is
not at all flattering to the denizens of an enlightened community.

These glimpses are not a whit over-drawn, and it is safe to say that