It was half-past nine when the air was filled with a deep musical,
melancholy sound, which appeared to come from the hill north of the
village, where the meeting-house stood. It lasted, perhaps, five
seconds, beginning with a long crescendo, and quivering into silence
by an equally prolonged diminuendo. It was certainly an astonishing
sound but none of the family appeared in the least agitated, Elnathan
merely remarking:
"Thar's the warnin blow, Perez, I guess ye better be thinkin baout
hitchin up." It were a pity indeed if the people of Stockbridge had
not by that time become familiar with the sound of the old Indian
conch-shell which since the mission church was founded at the first
settlement of the town had served instead of a meeting-house bell. It
may be well believed that strong lungs were the first requisite in
sextons of that day. When an hour later the same dreary wail filled
the valley once more with its weird echoes, the family was on its way
to meeting, Mrs. Hamlin and Elnathan in the cart, and Perez with
Prudence on foot. The congregation was now rapidly arriving from every
direction, and the road was full of people. There were men on
horseback with their wives sitting on a pillion behind, and clasping
the conjugal waistband for security, families in carts, and families
trudging afoot, while here and there the more pretentious members of
the congregation were seen in chaises.
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