"Oh, swallow, swallow, flying South, fly to her and tell her what I tell to thee."
The girls laughed; I looked and saw Belle trying to wipe the ice-cream from her sash.
"Never mind the sash, Miss Marigold," I said, in desperation, "I'll send you another to-morrow. But if you'll excuse me, I'll go home now. I'm not well, and mother'll be alarmed about me—I ought not to have left father alone to tend store, and I feel that I've taken cold. I presume some of these folks will have a spare seat, and my boots have shrunk, and I don't care for picnics as a general thing, anyway. My clothes are shrinking all the time, and I think we're going to have a thunder-shower, and I guess I'll go."—and I went.
CHAPTER II.
HE MAKES AN EVENING CALL.
It's very provoking to a bashful man to have the family pew only one remove from the pulpit. I didn't feel like going to church the day after the picnic, but father wouldn't let me off. I caught my foot in a hole in the carpet walking up the aisle, which drew particular attention to me; and dropped by hymn-book twice, to add to the interest I had already excited in the congregation. My fingers are always all thumbs when I have to find the hymn.
"I do believe you did take cold yesterday," said mother, when we came out. "You must have a fever, for your face is as red as fire."
Very consoling when a young man wants to look real sweet. But that's my luck. I'll be as pale as a poet when I leave my looking-glass, but before I enter a ball-room or a dining-room I'll be as red as an alderman. I have often wished that I could be permanently whitewashed, like a kitchen wall or a politician's record. I think, perhaps, if I were whitewashed for a month or two I might cure myself of my habit of blushing when I enter a room. I bought a box of "Meen Fun" once, and tried to powder; but I guess I didn't understand the art as well as the women do; it was mean fun in good earnest, for the girl I was going to take to singing-school wanted to know if I'd been helping my ma make biscuits for supper; and then she took her handkerchief and brushed my face, which wasn't so bad as it might have been, for her handkerchief had patchouly on it and was as soft as silk. But that wasn't Belle Marigold, and so it didn't matter.