ACT I.
SCENE I.—A Dining Parlour.—Pickle and his sister sitting by a table, on which plates are set for dinner—the sister working.
Pickle.
Well, well, sister, a little patience and these holidays will soon be over, the boy then goes back to school, and all will be quiet.
Miss P. Aye, till the next breaking up—no—no, brother, unless he is severely punished for what he has already done, depend upon it this vicious humour will be confirmed into habit, and his follies increase in proportion with his years.
Pick. Now would not any one think, to hear you talk, that my son had actually some vice in him, for my part, I own there is something so whimsical in all his tricks, that I cannot in my heart but forgive him, aye, and for aught I know, love him better into the bargain.
Miss P. Yes, truly, because you have never been a sufferer by them, had you been rendered as ridiculous as I have been by his tricks, as you call them, you would have been the first to complain, and to punish.
Pick. Nay, as to that, he has not spared even his father—is there a day passes that I don’t break my shins over some stumbling block he lays in my way—Why there is not a door but is armed with a bason of water on the top, and just left a-jar, so that egad, I can’t walk over my own house without running the risk of being wet through.
Miss P. No wonder the child’s spoilt, since you will superintend his education yourself—you! indeed!
Pick. Sister, sister, do not provoke me—at any rate I have wit enough to conceal my ignorance, I don’t pretend to write verses and nonsense as some folks do.