I'd like to know if, when they have a quarter given them to spend, they must always receive a bad shilling out of it at the stores, in "change"?
I'd like to know if people in omnibuses are at liberty to take them by the coat collar, lift them out of a nice seat, take it themselves, and then perch them on their sharp knee-bones, to jolt over the pavements?
I have a great mind to pick up all the children, and form a colony on some bright island, where these people, who were made up in a hurry, without hearts, couldn't find us; or if they did, we'd just say to them when they tried to come ashore—Never take grown-up folks here, sir! or, we'd treat them to a "second dinner,"—bill of fare, cold potatoes, bad cooking butter, bread full of saleratus, bones without any meat on them, watery soups, and curdled milk—(that is to say, after we had picked our nuts long enough to suit us at dessert!) How do you suppose they'd like to change places with "children" that way?
Now here's Aunt Fanny's creed, and you may read it to your mother if you like.
I believe in great round apples and big slices of good plain gingerbread for children.
I believe in making their clothes loose enough to enable them to eat it all, and jump round in when they get through.
I believe in not giving away their little property, such as dolls, kites, balls, hoops, and the like, without their leave.
I believe in not promising them a ride, and then forgetting all about it.
I believe in not teasing them for amusement, and then punishing them for being "troublesome."
I believe in not allowing Bridget and Betty to box their ears because the pot boils over, or because their beaux didn't come the evening before.