I wonder how the organist
Can do so many things;
He's getting ready long before
The choir stands up and sings;
He's pressing buttons, pushing stops,
He's pulling here and there,
And testing all the working parts
While listening to the prayer.
He runs a mighty big machine,
It's full of funny things;
A mass of boxes, pipes and tubes
And sticks and slats and strings;
There's little whistles for a cent
In rows and rows and rows;
I'll bet there's twenty miles of tubes
As large as garden hose.
There's scores as large as stovepipes and
There's lots so big and wide
That several little boys I know
Could play around inside.
From little bits of piccolos
That hardly make a toot
There's every size up to the great
Big elevator chute.
The organist knows every one
And how they ought to go;
He makes them rumble like a storm,
Or plays them sweet and low;
At times you think them very near;
At times they're soaring high,
Like angel voices, singing far
Off, somewhere in the sky.
For he can take this structure, that's
As big as any house,
And make it squeak as softly as
A tiny little mouse;
And then he'll jerk out something with
A movement of the hand,
And make you think you're listening to
A military band.
He plays it with his fingers and
He plays it with his toes,
And if he really wanted to
He'd play it with his nose;
He's sliding up and down the bench,
He's working with his knees;
He's dancing round with both his feet
As lively as you please.
I always like to take a seat
Where I can see him go;
He's better than a sermon, and
He does me good, I know;
I like the life and movement and
I like to hear him play;
He is the most exciting thing
In town on Sabbath day.
-- George W. Stevens