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CHArTER XI
LOCKED IN
Right below our old house on the hillside
stands the church. It is a little wooden church,
white-painted and low, with irregular Windows,
one low and another high, over the whole
church. The doors are low and even the tower
is low; the spire scarcely reaches up over the
big maple-trees, as we can see from our
Windows. But then the maple-trees are
tremen-douslv big.
Every one in town says that the bells in our
church tower are remarkable. They are
con-sidered unusually musical, and I think they are,
too; and nothing could be more fun than to
stand up in the tower when those great hells are
being rung!
It is awfully thrilling—exactly as if your
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