It was the Wilbur twin’s weekly task to do the shoes of himself and brother and those of the judge.  No one could have told precisely why the task fell to him, and he had never thought to question.  The thing simply was.  Probably Winona, asked to wrestle with the problem, would have urged that Merle was always the first one dressed, and should not be expected to submit his Sunday suit to the hazards of this toil.  She would have added, perhaps, that anyway it was more suitable work for Wilbur, the latter being of a rougher spiritual texture.  Also, Merle could be trusted to behave himself in the Penniman parlour, not touching the many bibelots there displayed, or disarranging the furniture, while the Wilbur twin would not only touch and disarrange, but pry into and handle and climb and altogether demoralize.  In all the parlour there was but one object for which he had a seemly respect—­the vast painting of a recumbent lion behind bars.  It was not an ordinary picture, such as may be seen in galleries, for the bars guarding the fierce beast were real bars set into the frame, a splendid conceit that the Wilbur twin never tired of regarding.  If you were alone in the sacred room you could go right up to the frame and feel the actual bars and put your hand thrillingly through them to touch the painted king of the jungle.  But the Merle twin could sit alone in the presence of this prized art treasure and never think of touching it.  He would sit quietly and read his instructive book and not occasion the absent Winona any anxiety.  Wherefore the Wilbur twin each Sabbath morning in the woodshed polished three pairs of shoes, and not uncheerfully.  He would, in truth, much rather be there at his task than compelled to sit in the parlour with his brother present to tell if he put inquiring fingers into the lion’s cage.

He had finished the shoes of his brother and himself, not taking too much pains about the heels, and now laboured at the more considerable footgear of the judge.  The judge’s shoes were not only broad, but of a surface abounding in hills and valleys.  As Dave Cowan said, the judge’s feet were lumpy.  But the Wilbur twin was conscientious here, and the judge’s heels would be as resplendent as the undulating toes.  The task had been appreciably delayed by Frank, the dog, who, with a quaint relish for shoe blacking, had licked a superb polish from one shoe while the other was under treatment.  His new owner did not rebuke him.  He conceived that Frank had intelligently wished to aid in the work, and applauded him even while securing the shined shoes from his further assistance.