Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum,”
sang Jack, in a clear baritone that made up in volume what it lacked in quality. “I don’t know but I’ll have to take to the tall timber, if I don’t find my school-books. Barberry, have you seen anything of my Greek since the twenty-sixth of last June?”
“All the school-books are piled on the rubber-box in the vestibule,” said Barbara. “I suppose your Greek is among them. Hurry, David; you’ll have to put on a clean blouse before you start, and it’s after eight, now.”
David’s voice came from the pillows of the couch, where he had curled himself into a disconsolate little ball,—“I’m not going to school to-day, Barbara.”
“Why not?” asked his sister.
“I’ve got a headache, and my shoulders are tired.”
“First symptoms of the nine o’clock disease,” commented Jack; “David has it every year.”
“I don’t think you feel so very bad,” said Barbara. “You’ve been so much better lately. And you’ll have to make up all the lessons that you miss, you know.”
“Wish I didn’t have to go to school,” said David, in a petulant voice that was most unusual with him; “I hate it.”