FullReads

When I found myself perched on a cloud, with a million other people, I never felt so good in my life. Says I, “Now this is according to the promises; I’ve been having my doubts, but now I am in heaven, sure enough.” I gave my palm branch a wave or two, for luck, and then I tautened up my harp-strings and struck in. Well, Peters, you can’t imagine anything like the row we made. It was grand to listen to, and made a body thrill all over, but there was considerable many tunes going on at once, and that was a drawback to the harmony, you understand; and then there was a lot of Injun tribes, and they kept up such another war-whooping that they kind of took the tuck out of the music. By and by I quit performing, and judged I’d take a rest. There was quite a nice mild old gentleman sitting next me, and I noticed he didn’t take a hand; I encouraged him, but he said he was naturally bashful, and was afraid to try before so many people. By and by the old gentleman said he never could seem to enjoy music somehow. The fact was, I was beginning to feel the same way; but I didn’t say anything. Him and I had a considerable long silence, then, but of course it warn’t noticeable in that place. After about sixteen or seventeen hours, during which I played and sung a little, now and then– always the same tune, because I didn’t know any other–I laid down my harp and begun to fan myself with my palm branch. Then we both got to sighing pretty regular. Finally, says he–

“Don’t you know any tune but the one you’ve been pegging at all day?”

“Not another blessed one,” says I.

“Don’t you reckon you could learn another one?” says he.

“Never,” says I; “I’ve tried to, but I couldn’t manage it.”

“It’s a long time to hang to the one–eternity, you know.”

“Don’t break my heart,” says I; “I’m getting low-spirited enough already.”

After another long silence, says he–

“Are you glad to be here?”

Says I, “Old man, I’ll be frank with you. This AIN’T just as near my idea of bliss as I thought it was going to be, when I used to go to church.”

Says he, “What do you say to knocking off and calling it half a day?”

“That’s me,” says I. “I never wanted to get off watch so bad in my life.”

So we started. Millions were coming to the cloud-bank all the time, happy and hosannahing; millions were leaving it all the time, looking mighty quiet, I tell you. We laid for the new-comers, and pretty soon I’d got them to hold all my things a minute, and then I was a free man again and most outrageously happy. Just then I ran across old Sam Bartlett, who had been dead a long time, and stopped to have a talk with him. Says I–

“Now tell me–is this to go on forever? Ain’t there anything else for a change?”

Says he–

“I’ll set you right on that point very quick. People take the figurative language of the Bible and the allegories for literal, and the first thing they ask for when they get here is a halo and a harp, and so on. Nothing that’s harmless and reasonable is refused a body here, if he asks it in the right spirit. So they are outfitted with these things without a word. They go and sing and play just about one day, and that’s the last you’ll ever see them in the choir. They don’t need anybody to tell them that that sort of thing wouldn’t make a heaven–at least not a heaven that a sane man could stand a week and remain sane. That cloud-bank is placed where the noise can’t disturb the old inhabitants, and so there ain’t any harm in letting everybody get up there and cure himself as soon as he comes.