When You Were a Boy

by Edwin L. Sabin

“Let’s come to-morrow.”

“N-no, I can’t come to-morrow,” you declared.

“I can’t, either,” said Hen.

Retrospect was most delightful; but prospect—well, here was a case where the prospect did not please. Anyhow, you had not been stumped. Your honor was intact—and you could rest on your laurels. You could nicely combine discretion with valor; so why not?

“I’ve been in swimmin’,” you ventured, with becoming modesty, at the supper-table that evening.

“John! When?” reproved mother, aghast

“To-day, after school.”

You endeavored to speak with the carelessness befitting a seasoned nature such as yours—but you awaited with some inward trepidation family developments.

“Why!” ejaculated mother.

You felt that she was gazing across at father. Much depended, you realized, upon father. However, he had been a boy, and he surely would understand.