Bring on the boots and shoes, Tommy; for this is Saturday night, and I must make things clean for Sunday.
Here is my old jacket, to begin with. Whack, whack, whack! As I beat it with my stick, how the dust flies!
The jacket looks a little the worse for wear; and that patch in the elbow is more for show than use. But it is a good warm jacket still, and mother says that next Christmas I shall have a new one.
Whack, whack, whack! I wish Christmas was not so far off. If somebody would make me a present now of a handsome new jacket, without a patch in it, I should take it as an especial kindness. I do hate to wear patched clothes.
Stop there, Master Frank! You deserve to be beaten, instead of your jacket. Look in the glass at your fat figure and rosy checks. Are you not well fed and well taken care of? Is not good health better than fine clothes? Are you the one to complain?
Ah, Frank! Just look at poor Tim Morris, as he goes by in his carriage. See his fine rich clothes, and his new glossy hat. But see, too, how pale and thin he looks. How gladly would he put on your patched jacket, and give you his new one, if he could have your health!
Whack, whack, whack! I'm an ungrateful boy. I'll not complain again. Christmas may be as long as it pleases in coming. I'll tell mother she mustn't pinch herself to buy me a new jacket. I'll tell her this one will serve me a long time yet; that I have got used to it, and like it. It will look almost as good as new when I get the dust out of it. Whack, whack, whack!
UNCLE CHARLES.