And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had happened, sopranos, altos, and bass had taken up the tune. Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat on the very front bench where anybody could see with half an eye that the singing master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his booming bass with all his might and main. Hadn't Drusilla pitched the tune? What else was the doting Jonathan to do? The two had been courting full six months, just to spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias, the patient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of the very last bench straight across from the adored Drusilla, sitting where anyone could see that Dru was playing a prank, when he heard the mighty boom of his rival, joined in with his high tenor: My eyes are dim, I cannot see, My specs I left at home. Louder and stronger roared Jonathan's bass. And Mathias, not to be excelled, raised his shrill notes higher still, sweeping the sopranos along with him. Bethel church house fairly trembled on its foundation. Poor old Philomel Whiffet raised his hands in dismay: "I did not mean for you to sing!" he cried, and again Drusilla took up his words: I did not mean for you to sing and louder swelled the chorus. All the while the singing master stood trembling, shaking his white head hopelessly. "I did not mean for you to sing," he pleaded, "I only meant my eyes were dim!" His words merely spurred them on. On surged the voices, bass, soprano, alto, tenor, in loud and mighty I did not mean for you to sing, I only meant my eyes were dim. The singing master fumbled his woolly wristbands, thrust his hands deep into pockets of coat and breeches, and peered searchingly about the little stand where, it was plain to see, was nothing but the songbook which he had dropped in his confusion. At last his trembling hand sought the sparse foretop. There, bless you, rested the lost spectacles. He yanked them to the bridge of his nose, and then, just as though he didn't know all the time it was Drusilla Osborn behind the prank, he turned his attention toward that pretty young miss. "Drusilla"--you'd never suspect what he was up to--"we all favor your voice in the ditty of My Son John. And you, Jonathan Witchcott, I don't know of any other fellow that can better sing the part of the courting man than you yourself. And I'm satisfied that no fairer maid was ever wooed than Dru yonder. So lead off, lest the other fellow get the best of you." Almost before Jonathan was aware of it he was singing, with his eyes turned yearningly upon Dru: My man John, what can the matter be, That I should love the lady fair and she should not love me? She will not be my bride, my joy nor my dear, And neither will she walk with me anywhere. Then, lest a moment be lost, the singing master himself egged on the swain by singing the part of the man John: