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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
55
I
did
not
want
it
to
be
Sabbath-day
always.
I
was
conscious
of
a
pleasure
in
the
thought
of
games
and
frolics
and
coming
week-day
delights
that
would
flit
across
my
mind
even
when
I
was
studying
my
hymns,
or
trying
to
listen
to
the
minister.
And
I
did
want
the
congregation
to
break
up
some
time.
Indeed,
in
those
bright
spring
days,
the
last
hymn
in
the
afternoon
always
sounded
best,
because
with
it
came
the
opening
of
doors
into
the
outside
air,
and
the
pouring
in
of
a
mingled
scent
of
sea
winds
and
apple
blossoms,
like
an
invitation
out
into
the
freedom
of
the
beach,
the
hillsides,
the
fields
and
gardens
and
orchards.
In
all
this
I
felt
as
if
I
were
very
wicked.
I
was
afraid
that
I
loved
earth
better
than
I
did
heaven.
Nevertheless
I
always
did
welcome
that
last
hymn,
announced
to
be
sung
"with
the
Doxology,"
usually
in
"long
metre,"
to
the
tune
of
"Old
Hundred."
There
were
certain
mysterious
preliminaries,--the
rustling
of
singing-book
leaves,
the
sliding
of
the
short
screen-curtains
before
the
singers
along
by
their
clinking
rings,
and
now
and
then
a
premonitory
groan
or
squeak
from
bass-viol
or
violin,
as
if
the
instruments
were
clearing
their
throats;
and
finally
the
sudden
uprising
of
that
long
row
of
heads
in
the
"singing-seats."
My
tallest
and
prettiest
grown-up
sister,
Louise,
stood
there
among
them,
and
of
all
those
girlish,
blooming
faces
I
thought
hers
the
very
handsomest.
But
she
did
not
open
her
lips
wide
enough
to
satisfy
me.
I
could
not
see
that
she
was
singing
at
all.
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