THE FARM SUNDAY 85 



what you do does not matter so long as it is 

 different from the week, and so long as it ex 

 presses and develops that peculiar Sunday 

 quality of balance and height. I can imagine 

 nothing drearier than seven days all alike, 

 and seven more, and seven more! Sundays 

 are the big beads on the chain. They need not 

 be all of the same color, but there must be the 

 big beads to satisfy the eye and the finger-tip. 



And a New England Sunday always is 

 different. Whatever changes may have come 

 or may be coming elsewhere, in New England 

 Sunday has its own atmosphere. Over the 

 fields and woods and rocks there is a sense of 

 poise between reminiscence and expectancy. 

 The stir of the morning church-going bright 

 ens but does not mar this. It adds the human 

 note rather not a note, but a quiet chord of 

 many tones. And after it comes a hush. The 

 early afternoon of a New England Sunday is 

 the most absolutely quiet thing imaginable. 

 It is the precise middle of the wave crest, the 

 moment when motion ceases. 



From that point time begins to stir again. 

 Life resumes. There is a certain amount of 

 desultory intercourse between farm and farm. 



