I
One hot afternoon in the summer of my tenth
year, my grandfather, having finished the nap he was
accustomed to take after the heavy dinner which, in
those days, was served at noon in his house, told me
that I might go up-town with him. This was not
only a relief, but a prospect of adventure. It was
a relief to have him finish his nap, because while he
was taking his nap, my grandmother drew down
at all the windows the heavy green shades, which,
brought home by the family after a residence in Nuremberg,
were decorated at the bottom with a frieze
depicting scenes along the Rhine, and a heavy and
somnolent silence was imposed on all the house.
When my grandfather took his nap, life seemed to
pause, all activities were held in suspense.
And the prospect was as a pleasant adventure, because whenever my grandfather let me go up town with him he always made me a present, which was sure to be more valuable, more expensive, than those little gifts at home, bestowed as rewards of various merits and sacrifices related to that institution of the afternoon nap, and forthcoming if he got through the nap satisfactorily, that is, without
