I arranged
them in two flat bouquets, with tall gladiolus stalks behind and smaller
growths ranging down in front so that they might see and be seen, peeping
over each other's heads, when placed against the wall in church.
Then after the great toilet-making of the week we were off. The drive over
the prairie in the democrat wagon behind our smartest pair of plough
horses was a pleasure that never grew tame from repetition. Arriving at
the church, I would give my bouquets to the old stoop-shouldered sexton
and watch him anxiously as he ambled down the aisle with them. Perhaps my
flowers--yes, the very flowers that I had dashed the dew from that
morning--would be placed on the pulpit itself, not on the table below, nor
yet about the gallery where sat the choir. Then indeed I felt honoured.
But wherever they might be, I could watch them all through the services,
perhaps catch their fragrance from some favouring breeze, and feel that
they were own folks from home.
Even sermon time did not seem long. After I had noted the text to prepare
for catechism at home, I was free to dream as I chose until the rustle of
relief at the close of the speaking.
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