News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1922-07-12
At Morrisville, VT, JULY 26-AUGUST l

cried. And 1 do read lots-at
home"
"At--home2"
l knew, then, of course, that I'd
made another awful break. There
wasn't any smile around Fathers eyes
now, and his lips came together hard
and thin over that last word.
"At-at my home" stammered. 81
mean, my other home"
"Humph !" grunted Father. Then,
after a minute: But why, pray, can't
you read here1 I'm sure there are
books enough" He fourished his
hands toward the bookcases all
around the room.
"Oh, / do--a little; but you see,
I'm SO afraid I'll leave some of them
out when I'm through" / explained.
"Well what of it? What If you dor"
he demanded.
"Why, Father" l tried to show by
the way / said 1t that he knew--of
course he knew. But he made me tell
him right out that Aunt Jane wouldn't
like it, and that the books always had
to be kept exactly where they be-
longed.
"Well, why not? Why shouldn't
they? Aren't books down therein
Boston-kept where they belong,
pray?'
1t was the first time since I'd come
that he'd ever mentioned Boston; and
l almost jumped out of my chair when
l heard him. But soon saw it wasn't
going to be the last, for right then
and there he began to question me,
even worse than Aunt Jane had.
He wanted to know everything,
everything; all about the house. with
its cushions and coy corners and cur
talns way up, and books left around
easy 10 get, and magazines, and Baby
Lester and the fun we had romping
with him, and everything. Only, Of
course, l didn't mention Mother. Aunt
Jane had told me not to-not any
where; and to be specially careful be-
fore Father. But what can you do
when he asks you himself right out
plain? And that's what he did.
He'd been up on his feet, tramping
up and down the room all the time
I'd been talking; and now, all Of
sudden, he wheels around and stops
short.
How is-your mother, Mary?" he
asks. And 1t was just as If he'd |
opened the door to another ROOM he |
mad such a whole lot of questions to |
ask after that. And when he'd fin |
shed he knew everything: what time
We got up and went to bed and what
We did all day, and the parties and
timers and auto rides, and the folks
hat came such a lot to see Mother.
Then all of a sudden he stopped
lsking questions, mean. He stopped
ust as suddenly as he'd begun. Why,
was right in the middle of telling
bout a concert for charity we got up
ust before l came away, and how
fother had practiced for days and
lays with the young man who played
he violin, when all of a sudden Fa-
her jerked his watch from his pocket
nd said:
There, there, Mary, it's getting
ate. You've talked enough-too
luch. Now 20 to bed. Good night"
Talked too much, indeed And
'ho'd been making me do all the
alking, l should like to know7 But,
( course, / couldn't say anything.
hats the unfair part of II. Old folks
an say anything, anything they want
, to you. but yos can't say a thing
ack to them-not a thing.
And so 1 went to bed. And the
ext day all that Father said to me
as, "Good-mornlng, Mary" and
just as he had ever
nee came. And that's all he's said
ssterday and today. But he's looked
me a lot, / know. because at meal
mes and others. when he's been In
e room with me. I've looked up and
und his eyes en- me. Funny, Isn't III
IT. - ~ontfnuas