"I must lay it so that no one can see it," she says.
"God will see it."
"He is not coming this evening," says the blasphemous hussy.
"Yes, He is everywhere," answers my little boy, severely.
He looks after me in particular:
"You mustn't say 'gad,' Father. Dirty's teacher says that people who say 'gad' go to Hell."
"I shan't say it again," I reply, humbly.
One Sunday morning, he finds me writing and upbraids me seriously.
"My little boy," I say, distressfully, "I must work every day. If I do nothing on Sunday, I do nothing on Monday either. If I do nothing on Monday, I am idle on Tuesday too. And so on."
He ponders; and I continue, with the courage of despair: