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I brooded over the matter until the idea of fighting Conway became a part of me。 I fought him in imagination during school…hours； I dreamed of fighting with him at night； when he would suddenly expand into a giant twelve feet high； and then as suddenly shrink into a pygmy so small that I couldn't hit him。 In this latter shape he would get into my hair； or pop into my waistcoat…pocket； treating me with as little ceremony as the Liliputians showed Captain Lemuel Gulliver … all of which was not pleasant； to be sure。 On the whole； Conway was a cloud。
And then I had a cloud at home。 It was not Grandfather Nutter； nor Miss Abigail； nor Kitty Collins； though they all helped to compose it。 It was a vague； funereal； impalpable something which no amount of gymnastic training would enable me to knock over。 It was Sunday。 If ever I have a boy to bring up in the way he should go； I intend to make Sunday a cheerful day to him。 Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nutter House。 You shall judge for yourself。
It is Sunday morning。 I should premise by saying that the deep gloom which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday evening。
At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs。 He is dressed in black； and looks as if be had lost all his friends during the night。 Miss Abigail； also in black； looks as if she were prepared to bury them； and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony。 Even Kitty Collins has caught the contagious gloom； as I perceive when she brings in the coffee…um…a solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time； but monumental now…and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail。 Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors； instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java coffee。 The meal progresses in silence。
Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day。 It is open this June morning； and is pervaded by a strong smell of centretable。 The furniture of the room； and the little China ornaments on the mantel…piece； have a constrained； unfamiliar look。 My grandfather sits in a mahogany chair； reading a large Bible covered with green baize。 Miss Abigail occupies one end of the sofa； and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap。 I sit in the comer； crushed。 Robinson Crusoe and Gil Blas are in close confinement。 Baron Trenck； who managed to escape from the fortress of Clatz； can't for the life of him get out of our sittingroom closet。 Even the Rivermouth Barnacle is suppressed until Monday。 Genial converse； harmless books； smiles； lightsome hearts； all are banished。 If I want to read anything； I can read Baxter's Saints' Rest。 I would die first。 So I sit there kicking my heels； thinking about New Orleans； and watching a morbid blue…bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide by butting his head against the window…pane。 Listen！…no； yes…it is…it is the robins singing in the garden…the grateful； joyous robins singing away like mad； just as if it wasn't Sunday。 Their audacity tickles me。
My grandfather looks up； and inquires in a sepulchral voice if I am ready for Sabbath school。 It is time to go。 I like the Sabbath school； there are bright young faces there； at all events。 When I get out into the sunshine alone； I draw a long breath； I would turn a somersault up against Neighbor Penhallow's newly painted fence if I hadn't my best trousers on； so glad am I to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Nutter House。
Sabbath school over； I go to meeting； joining my grandfather； who doesn't appear to be any relation to me this day； and Miss Abigail； in the porch。 Our minister holds out very little hope to any of us of being saved。 Convinced that I am a lost creature； in common with the human family； I return home behind my guardians at a snail's pace。 We have a dead cold dinner。 I saw it laid out yesterday。
There is a long interval between this repast and the second service； and a still longer interval between the beginning and the end of that service； for the Rev。 Wibird Hawkins's sermons are none of the shortest； whatever else they may be。
After meeting； my grandfather and I take a walk。 We visit appropriately enough…a neighboring graveyard。 I am by this time in a condition of mind to become a willing inmate of the place。 The usual evening prayer…meeting is postponed for some reason。 At half past eight I go to bed。
This is the way Sunday was observed in the Nutter House； and pretty generally throughout the town； twenty years ago。1 People who were prosperous and natural and happy on Saturday became the most rueful of human beings in the brief space of twelve hours。 I don't think there was any hypocrisy in this。 It was merely the old Puritan austerity cropping out once a week。 Many of these people were pure Christians every day in the seven…excepting the seventh。 Then they were decorous and solemn to the verge of moroseness。 I should not like to be misunderstood on this point。 Sunday is a blessed day； and therefore it should not be made a gloomy one。 It is the Lord's day； and I do believe that cheerful hearts and faces are not unpleasant in His sight。
〃O day of rest！ How beautiful； how fair；
How welcome to the weary and the old！
Day of the Lord！ and truce to earthly cares！
Day of the Lord； as all our days should be！
Ah； why will man by his austerities
Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light；
And make of thee a dungeon of despair！〃
1 About 1850。
Chapter Seven
One Memorable Night
Two months had elapsed since my arrival at Rivermouth； when the approach of an important celebration produced the greatest excitement among the juvenile population of the town。
There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School the week preceding the Fourth of July。 For my part； my heart and brain were so full of fire…crackers； Roman candles； rockets； pin…wheels； squibs； and gunpowder in various seductive forms； that I wonder I didn't explode under Mr。 Grimshaw's very nose。 I couldn't do a sum to save me； I couldn't tell； for love or money； whether Tallahassee was the capital of Tennessee or of Florida； the present and the pluperfect tenses were inextricably mixed in my memory； and I didn't know a verb from an adjective when I met one。 This was not alone my condition； but that of every boy in the school。
Mr。 Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporary distraction； and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connecting them directly or indirectly with the coming Event。 The class in arithmetic； for instance； was requested to state how many boxes of fire…crackers； each box measuring sixteen inches square； could be stored in a room of such and such dimensions。 He gave us the Declaration of Independence for a parsing exercise； and in geography confined his questions almost exclusively to localities rendered famous in the Revolutionary War。
〃What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the English vessels？〃 asked our wily instructor。
〃Threw it into the river！〃 shrieked the smaller boys； with an impetuosity that made Mr。 Grimshaw smile in spite of himself。 One luckless urchin said； 〃Chucked it；〃 for which happy expression he was kept in at recess。
Notwithstanding these clever stratagems； there was not much solid work done by anybody。 The trail of the serpent （an inexpensive but dangerous fire…toy） was over us all。 We went round deformed by quantities of Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers…pockets； and if a boy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution； he was sure to let off two or three torpedoes。
Even Mr。 Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universal demoralization。 In calling the school to order； he always rapped on the table with a heavy ruler。 Under the green baize table…cloth； on the exact spot where he usually struck； certain boy； whose name I withhold； placed a fat torpedo。 The result was a loud explosion； which caused Mr。 Grimshaw to look queer。 Charley Marden was at the water…pail； at the time； and directed general attention to himself by strangling for several seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over the blackboard。
Mr。 Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley； but said nothing。 The real culprit （it wasn't Charley Marden； but the boy whose name I withhold） instantly regretted his badness； and after school confessed the whole thing to Mr。 Grimshaw； who heaped coals of fire upon the nameless boy's head giving him five cents for the Fourth of July。 If Mr。 Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth； the punishment would not have been half so severe。
On the last day of June the Captain received a letter from my father； enclosing five dollars 〃for my son Tom；〃 which enabled that young gentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of our national independence。 A portion of this money； two dollars； I hastened to invest in fireworks； the balance I put by for contingencies。 In placing the fund in my possession； the Captain imposed one condition that dampened my ardor considerably…I was to buy no gunpowder。 I might have all the snapping…crackers and torpedoes I wanted； but gunpowder was out of the question。
I thought this rather hard； for all my young friends were provided with pistols of various sizes。