ying eggs at twelve to be hatched at twenty is subjecting them to
some risk, is it not?"

"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 thei