| MORE BELL VERSE |
| 'Twas the Day of the Concert (or Account of the Handbell Concert that Almost Wasn't) by Clement Lessis Moore 'Twas the day of the concert, when all through the church, Not a ringer was present, leaving the show in the lurch; The white gloves were stored in the closet with care, In hopes that a miracle soon would be there; The ringers were absent, all home in their beds, While nightmares of anthems played in their heads; The director, quite frantic and hardly her best, Was calling for substitutes and really was stressed, When out on the lawn there arose such a clanging, She sprang from the pew where her head she'd been banging. Away from the chapel she flew like a flash, Tore past the vestry, to the door she did dash. The sun on the pavement and the absence of cars Gave the feeling of ringers at home or in bars, When what to her wandering eyes should appear, But new ringers shouting "Don't worry. We're here." With a fully-stocked wagon of table and bell, She knew in a moment this couldn't be Hell. More rapid than angels these ringers they came, And the director informed them just who was to blame; "One's on some crutches! And several are sick! Ringer Nine's had a baby! How's that for a trick?! From 'death in the family' to 'just had a fall' They've conflicts, excuses--unbelievable all!" As angels that before the cold shepherds proclaimed, When the sheep that were sleeping stood silent and tamed, So off to the driveway the ringers they flew, With bell tables, folders and music stands too. And then, in a second, it happened so fast, The relief on that day just was not going to last. As she opened her van, the director turned 'round, The new ding-a-lingers were none to be found. She was greatly distressed from her head to her foot, Her blood pressure rising, the show was kaputt; She glanced at a mirror and insanely just laughed 'Cause she looked like a sailor flailing out for a raft. Her eyes--how they watered! Her forehead how furrowed! Her cheeks were all flushed, her day was so harrowed! Her pale little mouth was drawn tight in a frown, And the hue of her temple was as red as a clown; The end of a straw she held clenched in her teeth, And saliva was frothing 'round it like a wreath; She had a grave face and a pouty small chin, That shook when she cried "Let the pastor fill-in." She drafted the pastor as her relief ringer, And taught him to play all the notes and each stinger; A blink of his eye and a nod of his head, Assured the director she had nothing to dread;* He voiced no complaint, but went straight to his work, And learned each position, then went just berserk, And lifting his hand in the sign on the cross, And blessing the bells, grabbed the keys from the boss. He sprang to her van, gave the director a whistle, And away they both flew like the blast from a pistol. But we heard them exclaim, as they drove out of sight, "Just pray we don't screw up this concert tonight!" |
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| *The last two lines of this stanza originally read: A glare of her eyes and a thrust of her head, Soon told him to know "You'll play or you're dead;" These original lines were later revised because they imbued the poem with a frightening sense of realism that was contrary to the otherwise whimsical spirit of the piece. |
| Even More Bell Verse The Bell Not Stricken |
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