SUNDAY by WALT MASON

I'M always glad when Sunday comes, and our old town no longer hums with all the

jargon of the mart, the bargaining that breaks my heart. On Sunday morning I can

meet my friends and neighbors on the street, and they won't try to sell me
prunes, or real estate or pantaloons. And by no agent I'll be lured upstairs to

have my life insured. No auto salesman on my track, I freely walk to church and

back; I hear the pastor's helpful views, in my new suit and polished shoes; the

worshipers have left behind, for one brief day, the beastly grind, and when the

parson's discourse ends, I mingle freely with my friends, and no one tries to
sell me socks or whiskers dye, or patent locks. No salesman interrupts the hymn,

to boost his duplex wooden limb. I walk back home in cheerful mood, my spirit
full of gratitude that there's one day in every week when wheels of commerce
cease to creek. I do not hide behind a tree when some investment sharp I see. I

do not have to dodge or spurn the agent for a patent churn.

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