Our Christmas Choir

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20995, 23 December 1939, Page 14 (Supplement)

Our Christmas Choir

(By DENNIS DUNN)

EADY?” called the Vicar, and tapped the music stand with his baton “ One, two, three. See the little pixies dance ” “ See the little pixies dance,” we sang. “ ’Neath the moon on Christmas Eve, While the merry elves do prance ” | “ On the feast of Stephen!” boomed Caleb j Gonke, dispassionately. i The Vicar threw down his baton and

glared. We all frowned at Caleb. He is the baritone of our Choral Society, and while owning the best baritone in Lesser Honking, he suffers from the slight musical defect of being stone deaf! We were rehearsing to give our turn at the Lesser Honking Yule Festival, held every Christmas in the club room of The Friendly Yaks Society. With Caleb, we were finding it pretty grim going. “Mr Gonke,” said the Vicar in a tired voice, “we are taking ‘ Fairy Revels,’ not * Good King Wenceslas.” “ What?” asked Caleb, cupping his ear. “ The Vicar says you are singing the wrong song!” I shouted. (I am the tenor, known locally as the “ Honking Nightjar.”) “ Who did?” smiled Caleb, interestedly. So the whole choir had a go. Wrong Song!” we shouted, “we are singing “Fairy Revels.” “She’s gone to Dorking to see her aunt,” smiled Caleb. “ Who are you talking about?” I snarled. “ Mary Evells,” explained Caleb, “ gone to see her aunt, matter of pleurisy.” Then the Vicar lost his temper, and screamed into Caleb’s left ear for two solid minutes without taking breath. “ Now, let’s try again,” said the Vicar, weakly, “ one —two—three. See the little pixies dance.” We took our places, and sang—- “ See the little pixies dance, ’Neath the moon on Christmas Eve, While the merry elves do prance ” “On the feast of Stephen!” announced Caleb, earnestly. The Vicar is a mild and patient man, and it cut us to the quick to see our good pastor break his baton in two and jump up and down on the pieces. But he fought manfully for control, and then in a voice fighting for calm, announced: “ Ladies and gentleman, to assist our more unfortunate member, we will rehearse ‘ Good King Wenceslas.’ ” Scowling at Caleb, we again took our places “ One—two—three ” chanted the Vicar. “ Good King Wenceslas looked out,*’ we sang. “ On the feast of Stephen, When the snow lay on the ground ” “ ’Neath the moon on Christmas Eve!” obliged Caleb in a tremendous arpeggio. The Vicar walked slowly into a corner and counted ten. We threw away our mysic and sat down upon the platform. “ While the merry elves do prance ” continued Caleb, happily, and then he noticed that nobody else was singing. “ Why has everybody stopped?” he asked innocently. We all advanced upon him, and grouped ourselves around him in a half circle. Then, taking our time from the Vicar, we shouted: “ Do you know which tune we are rehearsing?” “ But it’s too soon to worry ourselves about that—surely?” said Caleb, wonderingly. “ About what?” we screamed. “ Whitsun,” said Caleb, “ I thought we were rehearsing for the Christmas Festival!” Then I had a brilliant idea. “ Vicar,” I called, “ what about letting Caleb do a solo?” “ The very thing,” smiled that troubled man. We wrote it down for Caleb. We arranged for him to sing “ When the Holly Bursts in Bud.” It is about a young girl who is forsaken by her lover, but every Christmas she expects him to return when the holly bursts in bud, but he never does, and in the last verse she expires with the holly bursting in bud all around her. A lovely thing. Caleb was most enthusiastic. The Vicar arranged for Miss Looseways, the schoolmistress, to accompany Caleb. We have many pianists in our village, but Miss Looseways is the only one who uses the black notes. “Two or three bars introduction, Mr Gonke?” she smiled, politely. “Two or three bars, Caleb!” we howled, appreciating her difficulty. “They don’t open until six anyway,” said that unpopular songbird with a frown. So we wrote that down for him as well. He said three bars. “I like my breath well in hand,” he explained. Have you ever seen the Derby? It’s a fine race, and a rare spectacle. Especially do I like to see an unlikely outsider burning up the straight and pipping the favourite. But believe me, it is dull beside Miss Looseways accompanying Caleb in “The Holly Bursts in Bud.” Caleb got away first to a good start. I had forgotten that the poor chap couid not hear Miss Looseways anyway! Before she was firmly sat on the stool, Caleb had opened his throttle and given his larynx the gun. . . . “Of sixteen summers was the maid,” he roared, “Innocent and unafraid. . . . Sweet the summer—sweet the fields. . . .” “Mr Gonke!” yelled the accompanist, but then giving it up as a bad job, set her teeth, and did a heroic sprint to catch up. Twice she nearly got him! She was only two bar? behind when Caleb was roaring into, “White her limpid tears 1 splashed down,” and she was within hitting distance when he zoomed into, “Tho’ his laugh was harsh and cold,” but she refused at a stiff chord sequence, and by the time she was back on the pedals, Caleb was well up the straight and finished by a cool three minutes, and, “On her fair white corpse the blossom plopped!” Streaming with perspiration, Miss Looseways slammed the lid of the piano, burst into tears, and resigned from the Choral Society. Caleb, who did not realise she had given him best, thought it was an encore, and began all over again. He got as far as, “Sweet the summer—sweet Hhe fields . . when I took him by the shoulders and rammed him into a chair. And then the Vicar, who had vanished about the second furlong, came back through the side door with a parcel under his arm. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “you will be gratified to hear that I have been fortunate enough to obtain the services of the Philadelphia Choir for our Christmas Festival. They will give a programme of ‘Carols Old and New.* ” “But they wil lnever get here in time!” I gasped. “I have them here,” smiled the Vicar, evilly, and unwrapping his parcel, produced three brand-new gramophone records! “But what about . . .?” we stammered. “It would be best if we dispersed to our homes,” said the Vicar, gravely. We sighed and agreed. “Come on, Caleb,” I growled, “Home!” “What?” he asked, peacefully. “Home!” I bellowed, angrily. “Certainly,” smiled Caleb, and drawing himself up, placed a hand on his heart, and obliged. “Where’er we may wander, O’er land or sea or foam ...” Do you think it was cruel of me to hit him with the music-stand?