“Don't you think, Aunt Minerva,” he made answer, “I's gittin' too big to go 'thout any shoes? I's mos' ready to put on long pants, an' how'd I look, I'd jest like to know, goin' roun' barefooted an' got on long breeches. I don' believe I'll go barefooted no mo'—I'll jest wear my shoes ev'y day.”
“I just believe you won't. Go take them off at once and hurry back to your dinner.”
“Lemme jest wait tell I eats,” he begged, hoping to postpone the evil hour of exposure.
“No, go at once, and be sure and wash your hands.”
Miss Minerva spied the paint the instant he made his second entrance and immediately inquired, “How did you get that paint on your feet?”
The little boy took his seat at the table and looked up at her with his sweet, attractive, winning smile.
“Paint pertec's little boys' feets,” he said, “an' keeps 'em f'om gittin' hurted, Aunt Minerva, don't it?”
Miss Minerva laid down her fork and gave her nephew her undivided attention.
“You have been getting into mischief again, I see, William; now tell me all about it. Are you afraid of me?”
“Yas 'm,” was his prompt response, “an' I don't want to be put to bed neither. The Major he wouldn't put little boys to bed day times.”