than five thousand according to his figures. "My boy", he said to
me one Sunday evening, "if you should ever be a parson, try to make your
sermons different every time. It seems to me as though I had heard the
same sermon all my life". On the Sabbath day, after the chores were
done, there were shaving and dressing, the fires to be put out and the
windows to be made fast with a button or a nail. Then the carryall was
brought out, a high narrow vehicle difficult to get into, and still more
difficult to get out of. The mare, Nancy, was called white, but she had
patches of brown along her expansive sides and was, with much effort,
squeezed between the fills, and the straps made tight in their buckles.
Nancy winced at this tightening. She did not like her Sunday harness
which had grown hard and stiff from infrequent use and too small, having
been made for her when she was younger. I also felt most uncomfortable
in my good clothes, which were ever outgrown and held me like a
corselet. At last the house door was locked and we drove the two miles
to the church, silent and serious as became our Sunday clothes and our
equipage. We felt strange to ourselves and not at ease. When the meeting
was over I had a sudden overpowering revulsion in my spirits. I wanted
to shout, to run, to jump over something and a hitching post as high as
my head offered the nearest opportunity. I forgot the Sunday school
lesson in a moment; I had not understood a word of it. On the way home
we became very cheerful. There was comment on the wayside farms and
gossip of the doings of the neighbors. We compared the height of their
corn with our own field, and always found it a little less than ours. A
heavy load of something seemed lifted from our hearts on returning from
meeting. Uncle Lyman slyly put his quid back into his mouth which at
once made him happier. There was a faint remonstrance from the back
seat, which he pretended not to hear; or he would rejoin, "mother, have
you munched all those caraway seeds you took along to meeting?" My
driving on the way home was much like the illusion which follows us
through life. Hands in front of ours direct our actions and our affairs.
We hold but the slack of the reins, and the driven imagines himself the
driver. There was a short whip in the socket, which was never taken out
in the summer, and in sleighing disappeared altogether; it was only
ornamental. "Hudup" and a flap of the reins were enough for the
encoura