"Laying 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."