Albert was a solemn-eyed, spiritual-looking child. "Nurse," he said one day, leaving his blocks and laying his hand on her knee, "nurse, is this God's day?"
"No, dear," said the nurse, "this is not Sunday; it is Thursday."
"I'm so sorry," he said, sadly, and went back to his blocks.
The next day and the next in his serious manner he asked the same question, and the nurse tearfully said to the cook:
"That child is too good for this world."
On Sunday the question was repeated, and the nurse, with a sob in her voice, said: "Yes, lambie, this is God's day."
"Then where is the funny paper?" he demanded.
TEACHER—"Good little boys do not skate on Sunday, Corky. Don't you think that is very nice of them?"
TEACHER—"And why is it nice of them, Corky?"
CORKY—"Aw, it leaves more room on de ice! See?"
Of all the days that's in the week,
I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday.—Henry Carey.
O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair,
How welcome to the weary and the old!
Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly care!
Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!—Longfellow.