VI 



The Farm Sunday 



I HAVE never been able to discover why it is 

 that things always happen Sunday morning. 

 We mean to get to church. We speak of it 

 almost every Sunday, unless there is a steady 

 downpour that puts it quite out of the ques 

 tion. But, somehow, between nine and ten 

 o clock on a Sunday morning seems to be the 

 farm s busiest time. If there are new broods 

 of chickens, they appear then; if there is a 

 young calf coming, it is his birthday; if the 

 gray cat an uninvited resident of the barn 

 must go forth on marauding expeditions, 

 he chooses this day for his evil work, and the 

 air is rent with shrieks of robins, or of cat 

 birds, or of phoebes, and there is a wrecked 

 nest, and scattered young ones, half-fledged, 

 that have to be gathered into a basket and 

 hung up in the tree again by our united ef 

 forts. And always there is the same conversa 

 tion: 



