I would die first.

So I sit there kicking my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide by butting his head against the window-pane.

Listen!--no, yes--it is--it is the robins singing in the garden--the grateful, joyous robins singing away like mad, just as if it wasn't Sunday.

Their audacity tickles me.
My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a sepulchral voice if I am ready for Sabbath school.

It is time to go.