Wich my sister says she is a awful gossip, wot’ll tell all over town that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that stuff was just to make red roses on card-board, wich is all right.
Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.
“Aha, Missy,” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them photographs wot I took out o’ your buro!”
Some folks think little boys’ ears are made o’ purpose to be boxed--my sisters do. If they knew how it riled me up they’d be more careful.
I laid low--but beware to-morrow.
This morning they let me come down to breakfast.
I’ve got all those pictures in my pockets, you bet your sweet life.
“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a chance to slip out un-be-known.
“Oh, things,” sez I--’n’ she laughed.
I got off down town, an’ had piles o’ fun. I called on every one o’ them aboriginals of them photographs.