Sunday, mid-December.
Two birthdays this past week, Philip's thirteenth, Wednesday, and Nucky's twelfth yesterday, and the excitement of having gorgeous birthday cakes at our table, and passing around candles for birthday wishes.
At bed-time last night, Hen came up from the wash-house looking extremely clean as to head and feet. When he was passing into the bedroom however, I called him back. "What is that dark band just below your nightgown?" I asked.
He made no reply, but stooped so that his gown should fall lower. I lifted the hem to his knees, revealing the fact that the cleanness stopped half-way, and that above that line his legs were more than dingy. "Didn't you wash all over?" I inquired.
"Not quite all."
"How much did you wash?"
"Down to my neck and very near up to my knees. That dag-gone ole gown done shrunk up two inches sence the last time."
"But didn't I tell you you must wash all over every single bath?"
"That was before cold weather sot in. Philip he said down to your neck and up to your knees was a-plenty in cold weather, and all he was aiming to do; and it's all any of us boys been a-doing sence November started in."
"You haint never washed as far up as your knees, son," corrected Keats, from superior heights; "you allus stop where your nightgown comes to. I told you she'd ketch you if you done that!"