“Sherman Dart, I think you’re too mean for 300words!” She was about to turn away affronted when she had an inspiration.
“Mother,” she called, “O Mother!”
Mrs. Morton had been placidly sewing in the sitting room while the young people were studying their lessons by the dining-room table. She came to the door, inquiring.
“Mother, Sherm’s had a splinter in his finger and he wants you to kiss it better.”
Sherm started to protest, but Mrs. Morton did not stop to listen.
“Jane, I think that kind of a joke is very ill-timed, making your poor mother get up and come to you for nothing. You must remember I am not as young as I once was.”
Mrs. Morton departed with dignity.
“Now will you be good?” chuckled Sherm.
“Oh, I guess I’m square,” Chicken Little retorted, going back to her lessons.
Mrs. Morton had said truly that she was not so young as formerly. She had not been well all fall. Dr. Morton had persuaded her to see another physician, who, having assured her that she was merely run down, had prescribed the usual tonic. He had told Dr. Morton, however, that her heart action was weak and warned him to guard her against shocks of any kind and to have her rest as much as possible. This had agreed with the doctor’s own diagnosis of 301her condition, and the family had been trying to save her from all exertion. So Chicken Little was a tiny bit conscience-stricken.