A BAD BOY.
For precocity, irrepressibility, and too often depravity, “Young America” in these days can hardly be surpassed. Here is a story told me the other day: A little chap, not eight years old, whose parents live in one of the fashionable parts of New York, went last week to pay a visit to his grandmother. While there, in rummaging through his grandmother’s secretaire, he came across a half dollar, and shortly afterward he was on his way downstairs to invest his “find.” He expended the whole amount in candy, and, upon his return, was enjoying it in the privacy of his room, when his grandmother put in an appearance.
“Why, Robby,” she exclaimed, taking in the situation, “where on earth did you get all that candy?[Pg 40]”
“Bought it,” was the reply.
“But where did you get the money?”
“A gentleman I met in the street gave it to me.”
“Robby, I don’t believe you are telling me the truth,” said the old lady slowly, looking her grandson in the eyes. “In fact, I am sure you are telling me a falsehood. A little bird tells me that you are.”
The boy looked at her with a somewhat incredulous expression.
“Now, come, Robby, tell me where you got that money?”
“Why don’t you ask your dickey bird?” was the ready reply of the bad boy.