When it came on a week-day, it seemed like Sunday, and although now and
then we had some really interesting sermons, there was not enough to
fill two sabbaths coming so near together, and it gave me a restless
sort of feeling, especially so, when I knew how quiet and solemn my
father used to be all day, and also his great desire that we should
imitate him.

I had been a member of our old church three years, and while I desired
to live a Christian life, I could never feel that a long face, and
solemnly pronounced words made any difference in my real life. Father
did not believe any more in long faces than I did, still, I think from
fear of neglecting any part of his duty, he maintained a serious
demeanor from the break of our Sabbath days to their close. He had an
unusually beautiful way of asking a blessing that always gave me a happy
feeling. He merely said in a pleasant way, and with open eyes: "We
should be very thankful for this meal; may we have wisdom to prepare no
unsavory dishes, and strength to earn for ourselves, and others if
necessary, the bread we daily need." This gave us a thought (that never
grew old with me) of the needs of our neighbor, and also seemed so
rational, and fitted our needs so perfectly. Aunt Hildy called it a
common-sense blessing. I remember well how she spoke of it, in contrast
with Deacon Grover's long-drawn-out table prayers, saying with emphasis;
"The man, if he is a deacon, has a right to grow better, and we know he
asks God to bless things cattle couldn't eat."

Christmas, we all went to church, and although it was more than a mile,
aunt Hildy refused to ride.

"Let me walk as long as I can, time enough to ride by and by, and I'm
only fifty-eight years old, Mr. Minot," she said.