... and the children a play-place - even thine altars.

From Harold S. Stewart, The Stewarts of Dwight, p. 61.

Some years ago when my grandson, Gordon, was quite small, his cousin John was visiting him. The two boys went with me one Sunday morning to put the last touches on getting the church ready for service. I left when the work was done, but the boys lingered behind. Soon I heard the most awful noise coming from the church and hurried back to see what was happening. Gordon was in the pulpit shouting and pounding as hard as he could. John was at the organ, pumping for dear life and pressing all the keys he could. One sight of my beckoning finger at the door, and the racket ceased. Then, as I led the boys toward the Pine Cone [his cottage, next door to the church], the following conversation ensued: