He belonged just because he had a tenor voice,
and enjoyed singing. Indeed his solos were only spoilt to local fame
because when he sang he handled his aitches so hopelessly.
'And I saw 'eaven hopened
And be'old, a wite 'orse-'
This was one of Harry's classics, only surpassed by the fine outburst of
his heaving:
'Hangels--hever bright an' fair-'
It was a pity, but it was inalterable. He had a good voice, and he sang
with a certain lacerating fire, but his pronunciation made it all funny.
And nothing could alter him.
So he was never heard save at cheap concerts and in the little, poorer
chapels. The others scoffed.
Now the month was September, and Sunday was Harvest Festival at Morley
Chapel, and Harry was singing solos. So that Fanny was to go to afternoon
service, and come home to a grand spread of Sunday tea with him. Poor
Fanny! One of the most wonderful afternoons had been a Sunday afternoon
service, with her cousin Luther at her side, Harvest Festival in Morley
Chapel. Harry had sung solos then--ten years ago. She remembered his pale
blue tie, and the purple asters and the great vegetable marrows in which
he was framed, and her cousin Luther at her side, young, clever, come
down from London, where he was getting on well, learning his Latin and
his French and German so brilliantly.
However, once again it was Harvest Festival at Morley Chapel, and once
again, as ten years before, a soft, exquisite September day, with the
last roses pink in the cottage gardens, the last dahlias crimson, the
last sunflowers yellow.
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