"Gee, I wisht I had a war in my family!" sighed Philip, fervently.
Thursday.
Two more nights of suffering,—Philip said to me this morning, "I heared you up a-fleaing four or five times in the night." When I found that several panels of the back fence had been washed away by the "tide" of week-before-last, and that neighborhood hogs were coming in and out at will, and making their beds under my very room, I did not wonder.
This morning at the breakfast table, Philip's face was so dingy that I inquired, "Have you washed your face?"
"Yes," was his reply.
Something moved me to inquire further, "When?"
"Day before yesterday," he replied, with perfect nonchalance.
This is dangerous,—already I can see that Philip is to be, like his illustrious namesake "the glass of fashion and the mold of form," and that the younger boys, will be only too ready to omit disagreeable rites if he does.
Poor Keats, who in the matter of beauty certainly lives up to his name, really seems inconsolable. While he cleans the chicken-yard in the mornings, my heart is wrung by hearing him chant the most dismal of songs,
Oh bury me not, on the broad pa-ra-a-ree,
Where the wild ky-oats will holler over me!