Punctuality,
which has always seemed to Josephine a pitiful sort of virtue, ranks in
my category of human conduct almost on a par with brotherly love, and I
am apt to make myself and her pretty miserable on each returning Sabbath
by my endeavors to get the family out of the house and into our pew on
time. It is only by bearing strictly in mind what day it is that I am
able to keep my lips from speaking guile when little Fred remembers at
the last moment that he has forgotten his pocket-handkerchief or
Josephine's glove bursts open in the process of being hastily rammed on
and I am compelled to wait while she sends upstairs for a fresh pair.
You should see how her nostrils swell with pride as we sweep by my old
pal, Nicholas Long, and his wife, who are manifestly not going to church.
I can discern on Nick's face, as we pass, an expression which is half
sardonic, half pitiful. Evidently he has not forgotten my quondam
oft-repeated vow that no child of mine should be taught the orthodox
fairy tales in unlearning which I had spent some of the best years of my
life. And now I am a recreant, and he who aided and abetted me in my
asseverations of independence remains faithful. Yes, but Nick, poor
fellow, has no children. His grin seems to say, "See what you are
missing, poor old patriarch; Dorothy and I are off for a ten-mile tramp
in the country.
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