“Mother punished me last night for not telling the truth, and told me to tell it always.”
And then I tried to explain things to him; and he looked sweet, and said “he would try and remember not to hurt folks'es feelin's.”
He never thought of doin' it in the first place, and I knew it. And I declare, I thought to myself, as I went back into the room,—
“We whip children for tellin' lies, and shake 'em for tellin' the truth. Poor little creeters! they have a hard time of it, anyway.”
But when I went back into the room, I see Kezier was mad. And she said in the course of our conversation, that “she thought Cicely was too much took up on the subject of intemperance, and some folks said she was crazy on the subject.”
Kezier was always a high-headed sort of a woman, without a nerve in her body. I don't believe her teeth has got nerves; though I wouldn't want to swear to it, never havin' filled any for her.
And I says back to her, for it made me mad to see Cicely run,—
Says I, “She hain't the first one that has been called crazy, when they wus workin' for truth and right. And if the old possles stood it, to be called crazy, and drunken with new wine—why, I s'pose Cicely can.”
“Wall,” says she, “don't you believe she is almost crazy on that subject?”
Says I, deep and earnest, “It is a good crazy, if it is. And,” says I, “to s'posen the case,—s'posen the one we loved best in the world, your Ebineezer, or my Josiah, should have been ruined, and led into murder, by drinkin' milk, don't you believe we should have been sort o' crazy ever afterwards on the milk question?”