“I hear him,” responded mother, mildly.
“Run out and tell him, so he won’t wait,” suggested father.
Enveloped in sorrow and shame you emerged to the impatient Snoopie and broke the news.
“I can’t go. My father says I’ve got to rake the yard.”
Snoopie stared in amaze. He never had any yard to rake, for his father was dead, or something, and his mother worked out by the day. He never had to change his clothes, and he could play hooky whenever he pleased. Sometimes you almost envied Snoopie.
“Aw, hang the old yard!” advised Snoopie, incredulous. “Come on. She’s a daisy day.”
“I can’t,” you confessed miserably.
“Pooh! You bet I’m goin’, tho’, all the samee! You’re missin’ it!”
And on he passed, whistling, with ostentatious blitheness, a disjointed tune, leaving you to lean disconsolately over the fence and remark him, and then to retire to face the flinty tyrants within.
You plumped into your breakfast chair, and ruthlessly banged your plate with your knife, and scowlingly bolted your food. But nobody appeared to notice. After breakfast the routine of the day was calmly taken up as usual. Father went down town, to business; mother bustled about household duties; Maggie the girl sang as she removed the breakfast dishes. It seemed to be accepted as a matter of course that you should rake. For this was such a morning made—raking. You raked.