at we had to, but we go to all the other churches.
Episcopal the first Sunday, Methodist the second, Presbyterian the
third, and Baptist the fourth, and when we get through we begin all over
again.

We go to church like we do everything else, two by two. Start at a tap
of that same old bell, and march along like wooden figures wound up; and
the people who see us don't think we are really truly children or like
theirs, except in shape inside. They think we just love our hideous
clothes, and that we ought to be thankful for molasses and
bread-and-milk every night in the week but one, and if we're not, we're
wicked. Rich people think queer things.

Sundays at the Humane are terribly religious.

They begin early and last until after supper, and if anybody is sorry
when Sunday is over, it's never been mentioned out loud. We have prayers
and Bible-reading before breakfast every day, but on Sundays longer.
Then we go to Sunday-school, where some of the children stare at us like
we were foreign heathen who have come to get saved. Some nudge each
other and laugh. But real many are nice and sweet, and I just love that
little Minnie Dawes, who sits in front of me. She wears the prettiest
hats in Yorkburg, and I get lots of ideas from them. I trim hats in my
mind all the time Miss Sallie is talking--Miss Sallie is our teacher.

She is a good lady, Miss Sallie Ray is. Her chief occupation is
religion, and as for going to church, it's the true joy of her life.
She's in love with Mr. Benson, the Superintendent, and very regular at
all the services. So is he.

But for teaching children Miss Sallie wasn't meant. She really wasn't.
She never surely knows the lesson herself, and it was such fun asking
her all sorts of questions just to see her flounder round for answers
that I used to pretend I wanted to know a lot of things I didn't. But I
don't do that now. It was like punching a lame cat to see it hop, and I
stopped.

She don't ask me anything, either. Never has since the day Mr. Benson
came in our class and asked for a little review, and Martha Cary made
trouble, of course.

Miss Sallie was so red and excited by Mr. Benson sitting there beside
her that she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't, or she wouldn't
have asked me questions, knowing I never say the things I ought. But
after a minute she did ask me, fanning just as hard as she could. It
was in January.

"Now, Mary Cary, tell us something of the people we have b