II
HAPPINESS IS BETTER THAN CHURCH
Four more were born—boys all—goodly and ruddy—like their little mother. But, one and all, they surprised and delighted her by growing tall like their father.
“You see, John,” said Betsy, “they are going to be big like you, and good like me.”
Well, one by one, they went out into the world—but never very far from the romping comrade-mother. Away from her the world was neither so gay nor so tender. They never found another woman so altogether lovely.
There was no work for any of them on Sunday, so they would all come home. Indeed, in the country of the Germans of Pennsylvania, no one ever worked on Sunday in that day and generation. And such Sundays as they were! No going to church, I fear—a heinous omission perhaps. But how could they? There was gentle revelry in the little house from the first moment—not a soul of them would have missed that for any church on earth—and no church on earth would have done them so much good—then a feast. Sometimes—when all had work and wages were good—a stewed turkey! And, after it all, kisses and hugs and good-nights—till one thought it would never end.
And, after they were gone, Betsy would cry—and John would take her in his lap and say never a word—leaving her to fall asleep there.
But once, instead of sleeping, she sat up and took John by the throat.
“John! I’m glad they’re not girls—any of them.” For this used to be a complaint of Betsy’s—that none of them were girls.
“Yes,” said John, meekly.
She gripped his throat a little tighter and shook him.