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sudden this winter I’d begun to resent having to go to Sunday school, and church every week, and I’d quit saying prayers anyhow most nights, partly because I wasn’t sure anyone was listening—after all, why should anyone—and partly because by the time I’d done my homework and got into bed I was too sleepy, anyhow. I’m not sure how John felt. He’s not like me. He never griped about church and all and I don’t think not understanding
God ever bothered him, but I think maybe he thought he was too big for prayers at Mother’s knee and all that stuff, too.
    This time he didn’t say it would upset Mother and Rob if we didn’t, he just said, “Sure,” and looked over at me, as though to make certain I wasn’t going to say anything.
    So we said prayers and then Rob said his God-bless. We always used to say a God-bless, but Rob was the only one who did that night, and nobody urged anybody else to, thank heavens. I’ve always loved Rob’s God-blesses. He talks very sternly to God during them, telling Him just where to get off, and he spends a great deal of time blessing a great many animals and people. I guess Mother’d had to cut him down on it some, because instead of naming all the cats we’ve ever had, the way he used to, he asked God to bless Mr. Rochester and Colette, our dogs, and then, “and bless Hamlet and Prunewhip and all the cats and dogs who have been, will be, and are.” Then he did the same with people, just blessed the family, and then asked God to bless all the people on all the planets who have been, will be, and are. Then he said, “And God, help the situation in the world. Please don’t let there be any wars. Please just make everybody die of old age.” And then, “And God, thank you because we’ve had a wonderful day, and please make tomorrow be just as wonderful, and keep us safe. God, I’m very consented. Bless me and make me a good boy. Amen.”
    I think if everybody could be like Rob about prayers I wouldn’t be so embarrassed by them.
    We all said good-night and rolled over comfortably in our sleeping bags. Mother and Daddy kept the lantern on for a little while and read, but it wasn’t long before they turned it off and it
was dark in the tent. It seemed very peculiar all to be going to bed at the same time and in the same place. I lay in my sleeping bag and listened to the rain pattering on the canvas roof of the tent, and to the gentle splashing of the brook outside. It was hard to tell which was rain and which was brook, and, to add to it, the wind and the rain in the pines sounded like the ocean, so that we might almost have been back at Grandfather’s. I’ve often noticed the way the sound of wind in pines is like the rolling of the waves on the beach. If you close your eyes and listen you can pretend you’re at the seashore. But I didn’t feel like pretending anything now. It was exciting being in our tent, sleeping out in the wilderness on the rather bouncy air mattress (Daddy said it would take a little experimenting to find out just how much air we needed) and looking around the dark tent. The canvas flaps had to be zipped up over the net windows because of the rain, but the front of the tent had a canvas porch, and from where I was lying on the tail gate I could look through the open netting of the door to the woods. The night sounds all seemed to be different from the night sounds at home, not just the brook and the rain on canvas and through pines, but the frogs and insects seemed to be singing in a different key and rhythm.
    I heard a hiss in Daddy’s direction and whispered, “What’s that?”
    â€œShh!” he whispered back. “I’m letting a little air out of my mattress.”
    â€œMay I?”
    â€œYes, but don’t let too much out, because you can’t put any back in.”
    â€œGo to sleep, Vicky,” Mother