Chapter 7 The vise beetle plays tricks on the poodle
At about half past ten, the broken bell of the chapel struck. After a while, people began to gather for morning prayers. The Sunday school children spread out to various parts of the church and sat with their parents so that they could be cared for by adults. Aunt Polly arrived, and Tom, Sid, and Mary sat down next to her—Tom was given a seat by the side of the hallway, trying to keep him as far away from the window as he was from, so as not to distract him from the summer scenery outside. The people walked down the corridor, and among them was the old and poor postmaster, who was not in a good position as before; the village chief and his wife, for there are many redundant official positions here, one of which is the village chief; magistrates; Widow Douglas, a wise and beautiful woman, forty years of age, generous, good-hearted, well-off, her house on the hill was the finest house in the village, and she was more hospitable than anyone else in St. Petersburg in the organization of festivals, and she was more pompous than anyone else; the hunchbacked Major Ward and his wife; Lawyer Riverson, who was a dignitary who had just come from afar. Then came the number one beauty of the village, followed by a large group of girls in muslin shirts and ribbons, and any young man would be sick with lovesickness when he saw it. Later, the young clerks of the village rushed in. They stood in a wall in the foyer, gnawing on the heads of their canes, smiling silly, and fascinated themselves at the girls who came through them, until the last girl broke out of their encirclement. Finally came the model child, Willy Mufson, who took care of his mother with care, as if she were a carved glassware. He always brought his mother to church, and mothers were proud of him. He was so well-behaved that he often made the boys "can't hold their heads up", so the boys hated him. As usual on Sundays, a white handkerchief peeked out of his ass pocket—as if it wasn't intentional. Tom doesn't have a handkerchief, so he sees boys with handkerchiefs as snobs.
By this time, the parishioners had assembled, and the bell had struck again, alerting those who were late and struggling. There was silence in the church, except for the soft laughter of the choir upstairs. During the worship service, the choir was always talking and laughing. Once upon a time, I had seen a well-bred choir, but I forgot where it was. That was many years ago, and I don't remember it clearly, but it seemed like it was in a foreign country.
The pastor sang hymns, which were sung with relish from beginning to end, and in a unique style, which was appreciated by the people of that area. His tone begins with a medium note, gradually climbs to a certain elevation, stresses the word on the highest note in particular, and then suddenly descends as if jumping off a springboard.
Others fight for glory, even if there is a river of blood.
Shall I sit in a sedan chair and wait to be carried into heaven?
Everyone thought he was a great singer. Every time the church holds a "party", it is indispensable to invite him to perform a poetry recitation. After his performance, the ladies would raise their hands, then put them down, slump on their knees, their eyes "dripping", and shake their heads repeatedly, as if to say, "It's indescribable, it's so beautiful, it's too beautiful for this mortal world." ”
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After the chant was sung, the venerable Sprague became a bulletin board with "announcements" about meetings, social events, etc., a long list of announcements that seemed to read the end of the world—a strange custom that was still preserved even in American cities in the age of newspapers like today's. The more unjustified a stereotype is, the more difficult it is to abolish it.
The pastor began to pray. It was an earnest, broad-hearted prayer that touched on every small aspect: He prayed for the church and the children in it;Pray for other churches in the village;Pray for the whole village;Pray for the whole county;Pray for the whole state;Pray for the ** people in the state;Pray for the United States;Pray for all the churches in the United States;Pray for Congress;Pray for **;Pray for the ***;Pray for the poor sailors who are bumpy in the rough seas;Pray for the millions of oppressed people who groan under the iron hooves of the European monarchies and the Eastern ** system;Pray for those who have the light and the gospel, but still turn a blind eye and a deaf ear;Pray for the infidels on the islands far away. Finally, he pleaded that what he was about to say would be approved by God to blossom and bear fruit like a seed sown into fertile soil for the benefit of the world. Amen.
With the sound of rustling clothes, everyone who was standing and listening sat down. The boy in this book didn't like that prayer, but he managed to get through it—and I'm afraid he couldn't even do it. He never settled down in the course of his prayers. He counted the specific items of the prayer, but it was also unconscious, because he was not listening, but he was familiar with the old content, and the progress of the pastor's preaching under normal circumstances—if something new was inserted in between, his ears could discern it, and he would be disgusted. In his opinion, the addition of new content is unfair and despicable. In the middle of his prayers, a fly lands on the back of the chair in front of him, which is a mental torture for Tom. The fly rubbed its hands unhurriedly, and rubbed it vigorously with its two arms around its head, as if it was about to unscrew its head, and even the slender neck could be seen clearly. It also stretches out its hind legs to scrape its wings, and then flattens the wings against its body, like the back hem of clothing. It was always calm and composed as it groomed like that, as if it knew it was safe. It was safe indeed, and though Tom's hand was itching so hard that he wanted to reach for it, he didn't dare—he felt that if he did that in the middle of his prayers, his soul would be destroyed. However, when the pastor said the last word, he folded his hands and quietly moved forward. As soon as the word "Amen" came out, the flies had become his captive. When his aunt noticed what he was doing, she told him to release the flies.
The pastor began to preach, and he preached on a problem that was dull, monotonous, and instigating, and many of them gradually began to doze off—he was talking about the boundless fire of hell, and in the end there were only a handful of people left who could be saved, and hardly worth saving. Tom counted the pages of the speech, and after each service he knew how many pages it was, and he knew almost nothing what it was. This time, however, he really became interested for a while. The priest paints a passionate and vivid picture of the "millennium".
As his speech became monotonous again, he fell into agony again. It didn't take long for him to remember that he had a treasure with him, and he took it out. It was a large, intimidating black beetle with a terrible jaw — he called it a "vise beetle." He kept the beetle in a detonator box. As soon as the beetle was released, it caught his fingers. Tom flicked his finger naturally, and the beetle rolled down the hallway, landing on its back on the ground. Tom put his aching finger into his mouth. The beetle lay there, shaking a few legs helplessly, but couldn't roll over. Tom looked at it and wanted to get it back, but his hands couldn't reach it. Others who were not interested in preaching also looked at the beetle and took some solace from it. It didn't take long for a roaming bearded poodle to come slowly, looking listless. The summer weather is so comfortable, and it is silent all around, it only feels lazy, it is very tired of staying at home, and it wants to come out for a change of air. It spotted the beetle and cocked its tail and waged. It looked at the beetle, walked around it, sniffed it from a distance, and then walked around it. It grew emboldened and leaned over to sniff it. It lifted its lips, cautiously trying to bite the beetle, but it came close to it. It bit again, and bit again, and gradually fell in love with the entertainment. It pressed its belly to the ground and rested its paws on the sides of the beetle, making new attempts again and again. Eventually, it gets a little bored, and it becomes careless and doesn't concentrate much. It nodded, its jaw drooping, and met the opponent. The beetle caught it all at once. The dog screamed and shook its head violently, throwing the beetle two yards away, and the beetle fell on its back to the ground again. The people nearby were so happy when they saw it that their bodies trembled. A few of them covered their smiling faces with fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was even more excited. The dog looked stupid, and maybe he thought he was stupid. However, it held its breath and wanted to take revenge. So, it walked over to the beetle and cautiously launched a new attack on it. It lunged at it from all angles as it circled, landing its two front paws an inch away from it, biting it with its teeth from a closer distance, then jerking its head back, its ears crackling again. After a while, it loses interest, and it wants to play with a fly, but it doesn't feel like much fun. It leaned its nose close to the floor and chased the ants for a while, but quickly got bored. It yawned and sighed, forgetting about the beetle and sitting on its ass. Then, I heard the dog scream in pain and ran down the corridor. It kept screaming and running, passing through the church in front of the altar and down the corridor on the other side. It passed through the doorway and entered the final sprint. The further it runs, the more painful it becomes. In a few moments, it seemed to turn into a fluffy, shiny comet, orbiting at the speed of light. Eventually, the pained dog went off course and jumped into his master's arms. Its owner threw it out of the window at once. The terrible screams quickly faded away, disappearing into the distance.
At this time, the people who listened to the sermon were so excited that they wanted to laugh but did not dare to make a sound, and they were so breathless that they could not breathe. The sermon has also stopped completely. After a while, the pastor began to preach again, but with a weak and staccato speech, and could no longer make an impression. Even when it came to the most solemn things, there was often a very unserious smirk from behind the distant stool, as if the poor priest had said something very impolite. When the pastor finally came to the end and blessed everyone, the audience was indeed relieved.
Tom Sawyer returned home in high spirits. Along the way, he thought to himself that if he added a little episode to the course of the service, it would be a good thing. He was not satisfied with one thing: the dog wanted to play with his beetle, which he was happy to, but it would not be interesting enough to take it away.
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