How well Ben remembered what his mother told Tim.
There are some little boys, and little girls too—some with black eyes and some with blue—who remember a great deal better what their parents tell their brothers and sisters, than what is told to themselves. Once upon a time there were two boys, one named Benjamin, and the other Timothy—but called Ben and Tim—whose story will afford a good instance of what I refer to.
These were nice little boys, and about as good as children in general; and they loved their mother very much; but still, they did a good many little mischievous things, that gave her trouble. She had a neat little garden, and in it were some pretty flowers—especially some red roses, which were very beautiful.
Now these two boys picked some of these roses, and, as their mother wished to keep them, she told them both not to pick any more. Well, for a day or two they obeyed; but at last little Ben, who was the eldest, saw a beautiful little rose, and it looked so pretty, he yielded to temptation, and plucked it. Tim saw him, and he plucked one too.
They said nothing about it, for a time; but the next day little Ben, who was very fond of telling tales, came out with the story, so far as Tim was concerned. “Mother,” said he, “didn’t you tell Tim not to pick any more roses?”
“Yes, I did,” said the mother.
“Well, he did pick one yesterday.”
“I didn’t!” said Tim.
“I say you did!” said little Ben.
“I say I didn’t!” said Tim.