“Aunt Hulda,” said Becky, suddenly, “don’t you think Sunday is an awful long day?”
“I do, by hokey!” blurted out Teddy. “Can’t get up no fun, nor nothin’. I’d like to go a fishin’ first rate; but jest as you git a nibble, long comes some the meetin’-house folks, and begin to talk about breakin’ the Sabbath. And that jest scares off all the fish.”
“And the fishermen, too, Teddy. My sakes, how you did run last Sunday when Deacon Hill caught you fishing down at the fore side!” said Becky, with a laugh.
“Plague take him! he jest marched off with my line and bait, too,” growled Teddy. “It’s none of his business, anyhow.”
“All days are long to a poor, afflicted creeter,” groaned Aunt Hulda. “But when I was a girl of your age, I did think Sunday was as long as six week-days beat into one; but then it’s the Lord’s day, and I s’pose, after all, we can make it long or short, just as we try to do what he wants us to.”
“Well, I’d like to know what he wants me to do, for I can’t find out any way to make it short. It’s just hateful, and I wish there wasn’t any such day,” replied Becky, turning restlessly about.
“Why, Rebecca Sleeper, how can you talk so? One of the things he wants folks to do is to go to meetin’ regular. You ought to know that well enough.”
“Does he?” said Becky, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Seems to me, Aunt Hulda, you don’t mind very well.”