"'Tabby,' says he, 'you would have your way and I'm takin' the bath.
But you can see for yourself that we'll have to cart water from now on.
However, _I_ ain't responsible; throw me down the soap and towel.'"

"Humph!" grunted Smalley, "I don't see what that's got to do with it.
Heman ain't takin' no bath."

"I don't know's it's got anything to do with it. But he kind of made me
think of Zeb, all the same."

The first day of school was, of course, a Monday. On Sunday afternoon
Captain Cy and Bos'n went for a walk. These walks had become a regular
part of the Sabbath programme, the weather, of course, permitting. After
church the pair came home for dinner. The meal being eaten, the captain
would light a cigar--a pipe was now hardly "dressed-up" enough for
Sunday--and, taking his small partner by the hand, would lead the way
across the fields, through the pines and down by the meadow "short
cut" to the cemetery. The cemetery is a favorite Sabbath resort for the
natives of Bayport, who usually speak of it as the graveyard. It is a
pleasant, shady spot, and to visit it is considered quite respectable
and in keeping with the day and a due regard for decorum. The ungodly,
meaning the summer boarders and the village no-accounts, seem to
prefer the beach and the fish houses, but the cemetery attracts the
churchgoers. One may gossip concerning the probable cost of a new
tombstone and still remain faithful to the most rigid creed.

Captain Cy was not, strictly speaking, a religious man, according to
Bayport standards. Between his attendance to churchly duties and that of
the Honorable Heman Atkins there was a great gulf fixed. But he rather
liked to visit the graveyard on Sunday afternoons. His mother had been
used to stroll there with him, in his boyhood, and it pleased him to
follow in her footsteps.

So he and Bos'n walked along the grass-covered paths, between the
iron-fenced "lots" of the well-to-do and the humble mounds and simple
slabs where the poor were sleeping; past the sumptuous granite shaft of
the Atkins lot and the tilted mossy stone which told how "Edwin Simpson,
our only son," had been "accidentally shot in the West Indies"; out
through the back gate and up the hill to the pine grove overlooking the
bay. Here, on a scented carpet of pine needles, they sat them down to
rest and chat.

Emily, her small knees drawn up and encircled by her arms, looked out
across the flats, now half covered with the rising