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MY FRIEND, THE TRAMP.
HAD been sauntering over the clover
downs of a certain noted New England
seaport. It was a Sabbath morning, so singularly
reposeful and gracious, so replete with the signifi¬
cance of the seventh day of rest, that even the Sab¬
bath bells ringing a mile away over the salt marshes
had little that was monitory, mandatory, or even
supplicatory in their drowsy voices. Rather they
seemed to call from their cloudy towers, like some
renegade muezzin : " Sleep is better than prayer ;
sleep on, O sons of the Puritans! Slumber still, O
deacons and vestrymen ; Let, oh let those feet that
are swift to wickedness curl up beneath thee ! those
palms that are itching for the shekels of the un¬
godly lie clasped beneath thy pillow! Sleep is
better than prayer. "
And, indeed, though it was high morning, sleep
was still in the air. Wrought upon at last by the
combined influences of sea and sky and atmosphere,
I succumbed, and lay down on one of the boulders
73
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