"Our young saints, of both sexes, wear wings all the time--blazing
red ones, and blue and green, and gold, and variegated, and
rainbowed, and ring-streaked-and-striped ones--and nobody finds
fault. It is suitable to their time of life. The things are
beautiful, and they set the young people off. They are the most
striking and lovely part of their outfit--a halo don't BEGIN."
"Well," says I, "I've tucked mine away in the cupboard, and I allow
to let them lay there till there's mud."
"Yes--or a reception."
"What's that?"
"Well, you can see one to-night if you want to. There's a
barkeeper from Jersey City going to be received."
"Go on--tell me about it."
"This barkeeper got converted at a Moody and Sankey meeting, in New
York, and started home on the ferry-boat, and there was a collision
and he got drowned. He is of a class that think all heaven goes
wild with joy when a particularly hard lot like him is saved; they
think all heaven turns out hosannahing to welcome them; they think
there isn't anything talked about in the realms of the blest but
their case, for that day. This barkeeper thinks there hasn't been
such another stir here in years, as his coming is going to raise.--
And I've always noticed this peculiarity about a dead barkeeper--he
not only expects all hands to turn out when he arrives, but he
expects to be received with a torchlight procession."
"I reckon he is disappointed, then.
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