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 newcomers，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.
“Now you just remember this—heaven is as blissful and lovely as it can be；but it's just the busiest place you ever heard of.There ain't any idle people here after the first day.Singing hymns and waving palm branches through all eternity is pretty when you hear about it in the pulpit，but it's as poor a way to put in valuable time as a body could contrive.It would just make a heaven of warbling ignoramuses，don't you see？Eternal Rest sounds comforting in the pulpit，too.Well，you try it once，and see how heavy time will hang on your hands.Why，Stormfield，a man like you，that had been active and stirring all his life，would go mad in six months in a heaven where he hadn't anything to do.Heaven is the very last place to come to rest in，—and don't you be afraid to bet on that!”
Says I—
“Sam，I'm as glad to hear it as I thought I'd be sorry.I'm glad I come，now.”
Says he—
“Cap'n，ain't you pretty physically tired？”
Says I—
“Sam，it ain't any name for it!I'm dog-tired.”
“Just so—just so.You've earned a good sleep，and you'll get it.You've earned a good appetite，and you'll enjoy your dinner.It's the same here as it is on earth—you've got to earn a thing，square and honest，before you enjoy it.You can't enjoy first and earn afterwards.But there's this difference，here:you can choose your own occupation，and all the powers of heaven will be put forth to help you make a success of it，if you do your level best.The shoemaker on earth that had the soul of a poet in him won't have to make shoes here.”
“Now that's all reasonable and right，”says I.“Plenty of work，and the kind you hanker after；no more pain，no more suffering—”
“Oh，hold on；there's plenty of pain here—but it don't kill.There's plenty of suffering here，but it don't last.You see，happiness ain't a thing in itself—it's only a contrast with something that ain't pleasant.That's all it is.There ain't a thing you can mention that is happiness in its own self—it's only so by contrast with the other thing.And so，as soon as the novelty is over and the force of the contrast dulled，it ain't happiness any longer，and you have to get something fresh.Well，there's plenty of pain and suffering in heaven—consequently there's plenty of contrasts，and just no end of happiness.”
Says I，“It's the sensiblest heaven I've heard of,yet，Sam，though it's about as different from the one I was brought up on as a live princess is different from her own wax figger.”
Along in the first months I knocked around about the Kingdom，making friends and looking at the country，and finally settled down in a pretty likely region，to have a rest before taking another start.I went on making acquaintances and gathering up information.I had a good deal of talk with an old bald-headed angel by the name of Sandy McWilliams.He was from somewhere in New Jersey.I went about with him，considerable.We used to lay around，warm afternoons，in the shade of a rock，on some meadow-ground that was pretty high and out of the marshy slush of his cranberry-farm，and there we used to talk about all kinds of things，and smoke pipes.One day，says I—
“About how old might you be，Sandy？”
“Seventy-two.”
“I judged so.How long you been in heaven？”
“Twenty-seven years，come Christmas.”
“How old was you when you come up？”
“Why，seventy-two，of course.”
“You can't mean it!”
“Why can't I mean it？”
“Because，if you was seventy-two then，you are naturally ninety-nine now.”
“No，but I ain't.I stay the same age I was when I come.”
“Well，”says I，“come to think，there's something just here that I want to ask about.Down below，I always had an idea that in heaven we would all be young，and bright，and spry.”
“Well，you can be young if you want to.You've only got to wish.”
“Well，then，why didn't you wish？”
“I did.They all do.You'll try it，some day，like enough；but you'll get tired of the change pretty soon.”
“Why？”
“Well，I'll tell you.Now you've always been a sailor；did you ever try some other business？”
“Yes，I tried keeping grocery，once，up in the mines；but I couldn't stand it；it was too dull—no stir，no storm，no life about it；it was like being part dead and part alive，both at the same time.I wanted to be one thing or t'other.I shut up shop pretty quick and went to sea.”
