“Gimme some cloze!”
“You’ve got more’n half now!”
“Come, children, do be good and go to sleep,” says the mother, entering the room and arranging the clothes.
They doze off after a few muttered words, to preserve the peace until morning, and it is popularly supposed that an angel sits on each bed-post to sentinel either curly head during the long, dark hours.
“Ho-hum!” yawns Bill.
“Ho-hum!” yawns Henry.
It is morning, and they crawl out of bed. After four or five efforts they get into their pants, and then reach out for stockings.
“I know I put mine right down here by this bed!” exclaims Bill.
“And I put mine right there by the end of the bureau!” adds Henry.
They wander around, growling and jawing, and the mother finally finds the stockings. Then comes the jackets. They are positive that they hung them on the hooks, and boldly charge that some maliciously wicked person removed them. And so it goes until each one is finally dressed, washed, and ready for breakfast, and the mother feels such a burden off her mind that she can endure what follows their leaving the table—a good half-hour’s hunt after their hats, which they “positively hung up,” but which are at last found under some bed, or stowed away behind the woodbox.