His father blamed him severely.
"Blame us, father," said the other boys.
"It is only the biter bitten," said Tom. "I am justly punished. I was the oldest, and I only am really to blame. It is all right that I suffered instead of poor George."
Then their father gathered them around him, and told them stories of the evil consequences he had known follow from being severely frightened.
The children all promised him never to commit such a fault again; and I believe they kept their word.
"But I am too long, and am growing prosy."
"So you are," bounced the musket.
"An ugly, impertinent contrivance, called a grate, was introduced in lieu of us—black, dirty coal was burned instead of beautiful oak and walnut, to warm the dear family. We were no longer of any use. Poetry went away with the andirons, sentiment and refinement are obsolete, and here we stand, the head and foot-stones, as it seems to me, at the grave of the dear old-fashioned buried past.
"I have done. Please, friend tea-kettle, favor us with your experiences."
"My story has nothing extraordinary in it," said the tea-kettle. "Like most of my friends, I have had my ups and downs in the world.