The Sabbath of A Great Auther by Edgar
Wilson Bill Nye
I awake at an unearthly hour on Sunday morning, after which I turn
over and go to sleep again. This second, or beauty sleep, I find to be
almost invaluable. I do it also with much more earnestness and
expression than that in the earlier part of the night. All the other
people in the house gradually wake up as I begin to get in my more
By eight o'clock everybody is stirring, and so I get up and glide
about in my pajamas, which makes me look almost like the Clémenceau
Case in search of an engagement.
Mr. Rogers is going to have me sit to him in my pajamas for a group
of statuary. He also wishes to model an iron hitching post from me.
On waking I at once take to me tub and give myself a good cold bath.
I then put in my teeth.
After doing some little studies in chiropody I throw a silk-velvet
dressing gown over my shoulders and look at my bright and girlish
beauty in a full-length mirror, comparing the dimpling curves, as I see
them reflected, with those shown in the morning paper.
After reading a little from the chess column of some good author, I
descend to the salon and greet my family smilingly in order to
open the day auspiciously. We all then sing around the parlor organ a
little pean entitled, It's Funny When You Feel That Way.
We now go to the breakfast room, where the children are taught to
set aside the daintiest bits for papa, because he might die some time
and then it would be a life-long regret to those who are spared that
they did not give him the tender part of the steer or the second joint
of the hen.
After breakfast, which consists of chops, hashed brown potatoes,
muffins and coffee, preceded by canteloupe or baked beans, we proceed
to quarrel over who shall go to church and who shall remain at home to
keep the cattle out of the corn.
We then go to church, those who can, at least, whilst the others
remain and read something that is improving. Sometimes I shave myself
on Sunday mornings. Then it takes me quite a while to get back into a
religious frame of mind. I do not manage very well in shaving myself,
and people who go by the house are often attracted by my yells.
I go to church quite regularly and enjoy the sermon unless it is too
firm or personal. If it goes into doctrine too much I am apt to be
quite fatigued at its end on account of the mental reservations I have
made along through it.
I like to go and hear about God's love, but I am rarely benefited by
a discourse which enlarges upon his jealousy. When I am told also that
God spares no pains in getting even with people, I not only do not
enjoy the information, but I would sit up till a late hour at night to
[Illustration: He sometimes succeeds in getting himself disliked
by some other dog and then I can observe the fight (Page 67)]
I shake hands with the pastor, and after suggesting something for
him to preach about on the following Sabbath, I go home.
In the afternoon I go walking if no one calls. We have dinner at 2
o'clock on Sunday, consisting of jerked beef smothered in milk gravy.
This is the remove. For side dishes we have squash or meat pie. We
sometimes open with soup and then have clean plates all around, with
fowl and greens, tapering off with some kind of rich pie.
After dinner I sometimes nap a little and then fool with the colt.
This is done quietly, however, so as not to break in upon the
devotional spirit of the day. After this I go for a walk or converse
intelligently with any foreign powers who may be visiting our shores.
When I walk I am generally accompanied by a restless Queen Anne dog,
which precedes me about a mile. He sometimes succeeds in getting
himself disliked by some other dog and then I can observe the fight
when I catch up with him.
As the twilight gathers all seem ready again for more food and we
begin to clamor for pabulum, keeping it up until either square or round
crackers and smearcase are produced. These are washed down with foaming
beakers of sarsaparilla.
As the evening lamp is now lighted, I produce some good book or
pamphlet like The Greatest Thing in the World, and read from it,
occasionally cuffing a child in order to keep everything calm and
reposeful. At 9 o'clock the cat is expelled and the eight-day clock is
wound up for the week. Gazing up at the bright cold stars after kicking
forth the cat, I realize that another Sabbath has been filed away in
the great big brawny bosom of the past, and with a little remorseful
sigh and an incipient sob when I think that I am not making a better
record, I drive a fence nail in over the door latch and seek my library
which, on being properly approached, opens and becomes a beautiful