“It might be so with eggs, but not with the catechism.  That will keep without spoiling a hundred years!”

“Because it is so dry?”

“Because it is so good.  But do, dear husband, go away, and not put notions in the children’s heads.  It’s hard enough already to get them through their tasks.  Here’s poor Arthur, who has been two Sundays on one question, and has not got it yet.”

Arthur, aforesaid, was sharp and bright in anything addressed to his reason, but he had no verbal memory, and he was therefore wading painfully through the catechism like a man in a deep-muddy road; with this difference, that the man carries too much clay with him, while nothing stuck to poor Arthur.

* * * * *

The beauty of the day, the genial season of the year, brought forth every one; old men and their feebler old wives, young and hearty men and their plump and ruddy companions,—­young men and girls and children, thick as punctuation points in Hebrew text, filled the street.  In a low voice, they spoke to each other in single sentences.

“A fine day!  There’ll be a good congregation out to-day.”

“Yes; we may expect a house full.  How is Widow Cheney—­have you heard?”

“Well, not much better; can’t hold out many days.  It will be a great loss to the children.”

“Yes; but we must all die—­nobody can skip his turn.  Does she still talk about them that’s gone?”

“They say not.  I believe she’s sunk into a quiet way; and it looks as if she’d go off easy.”

“Sunday is a good day for dying—­it’s about the only journey that speeds well on this day!”

There was something striking in the outflow of people into the street, that till now had seemed utterly deserted.  There was no fevered hurry; no negligent or poorly dressed people.  Every family came in groups—­old folks and young children; and every member blossomed forth in his best apparel, like a rose-bush in June.  Do you know that man in a silk hat and new black coat?  Probably it is some stranger.  No; it is the carpenter, Mr. Baggs, who was racing about yesterday with his sleeves rolled up, and a dust-and-business look in his face!  I knew you would not know him.  Adams Gardner, the blacksmith,—­does he not look every inch a judge, now that he is clean-washed, shaved, and dressed?  His eyes are as bright as the sparks that fly from his anvil!

Are not the folks proud of their children?  See what groups of them!  How ruddy and plump are most!  Some are roguish, and cut clandestine capers at every chance.  Others seem like wax figures, so perfectly proper are they.  Little hands go slyly through the pickets to pluck a tempting flower.  Other hands carry hymn-books or Bibles.  But, carry what they may, dressed as each parent can afford, is there anything the sun shines upon more beautiful than these troops of Sunday children?