The minister was preaching and everything was quiet and solemn when he heard a snicker behind him.
Grandfather King turned around with a terrible frown--for you know in those days it was thought a dreadful thing to laugh in church--to rebuke the offender; and what did he see but that great, hulking young Isaac stalking up the aisle, bending a little forward under the weight of a big bag of oatmeal?
Grandfather King was so amazed he couldn't laugh, but almost everyone else in the church was laughing, and grandfather said he never blamed them, for no funnier sight was ever seen.

Young Isaac turned into grandfather's pew and thumped the bag of oatmeal down on the seat with a thud that cracked it.

Then he plumped down beside it, took off his hat, wiped his face, and settled back to listen to the sermon, just as if it was all a matter of course.

When the service was over he hoisted his bag up again, marched out of church, and drove home.
He could never understand why it made so much talk; but he was known by the name of Oatmeal Frewen for years." Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old orchard and across the far, dim meadows.

Felicity and Cecily went into the house and Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but Peter decoyed me into the granary to ask advice.
"You know Felicity has a birthday next week," he said, "and I want to write her an ode." "A--a what ?" I gasped.
"An ode," repeated Peter, gravely.