Every time
that kid cut his finger he jest natcherally bled
scientifics. One day I says to Miss Estelle,
says I:
"It looks to me like William Dear is kind of
peaked." She looks worried and she looks mad
fur me lipping in, and then she says mebby it is
true, but she don't see why, because he is being
brung up like he orter be in every way and no ex-
pense nor trouble spared.
"Well," says I, "what a kid about that size
wants to do is to get out and roll around in the dirt
some, and yell and holler."
She sniffs like I wasn't worth taking no notice
of. But it kind o' soaked in, too. She and the
perfessor must of talked it over. Fur the next
day I seen her spreading a oilcloth on the hall
floor. And then James comes a buttling in with
a lot of sand what the perfessor has baked and
made all scientific down in his labertory. James,
he pours all that nice, clean dirt onto the oilcloth
and then Miss Estelle sends fur William Dear.
"William Dear," she says, "we have decided,
your papa and I, that what you need is more romp-
ing around and playing along with your studies.
You ought to get closer to the soil and to nature,
as is more healthy for a youth of your age. So for
an hour each day, between your studies, you will
romp and play in this sand. You may begin to
frolic now, William Dear, and then James will
sweep up the dirt again for to-morrow's frolic.
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