Sunshine Factory | Page 7

sister Laura has been learning this verse, and he wants to."
In the little reading-room opening from the study, Uncle Warren, a gay
young chap who was boarding at his sister's, listened and laughed over
the words that sounded so queerly, coming from the baby lips. Over
and over they were repeated: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction:
but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." As he listened Uncle Warren's
handsome face grew sober, he was writing letters, and many papers
were strewn before him. He took up one of them and read it over:
"Dear old fellow:--You have buried yourself in your sister's arms long
enough. Don't be tied to her apron-string; come down to-night, we are
going to have a real jolly time in Joe's room. Mum is the word."
Uncle Warren laid it down again and took up another. It read:
"Don't allow yourself to be caught in places where everything is to be
kept secret. When boys begin to keep their pleasures from their best
friends, it generally shows there is something wrong. I've been a little
worried about your evenings. I hope you will be prudent as to how you
spend them. Remember you are your father's only son."
[Illustration]
Over the first reading of this letter, Warren had said, "Poh! Fiddlesticks!
He thinks I am a baby," and laying it down had begun a reply to the
other, that read thus: "Dear Dick:--I'll be on hand, though I don't
suppose our governors would like it much."
Little Warren, in the other room, went on struggling with the long
words, "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth
reproof is prudent." How exactly to the point it was, even about the
prudent part. It startled him a little. He tore Dick's letter into little bits,
while he listened and thought. Then he took up his father's letter once
more and read it over slowly; then with a sudden decided movement,

he tore the letter he was writing into halves, and put it into the waste
basket, and rapidly wrote this in it's place: "Dick:--I can't come. My
father wouldn't approve; neither will yours. In haste, Warren."
Then he went out and kissed little Warren on his nose, on his eyes, on
his chin, three times for each; and that was all that either the little boy
or his mother knew about the work that had been done in the library.
[Illustration]

BROWN TOMMY.
Not Tommy Brown, but Brown Tommy. He was all in brown from tip
to toe. His hair was brown by nature, and the sun had browned his face
and hands. His eyes were a lovely dark brown. He went on a journey on
the cars with his mamma, and this is the way he was dressed. He had a
brown merino dress, kilt skirt and jacket, with rows and rows of brown
buttons all over it; there were two pockets in the jacket; his brown cloth
gloves were peeping out of one, and the corner of his handkerchief, that
hung out of the other, had a brown flower on it. His stockings were all
brown, and his waterproof cape that was hanging on his shoulders was
just the color of his stockings. Then he had a Centennial hat,
three-cornered, such as old soldiers used to wear a hundred years ago; it
had a long brown plume on it. This was Brown Tommy.
How did he act? Well, not so nicely as he looked, I am sorry to say. On
the cars, in the seat before him, was a lady who tried to talk with him,
but he saw fit not to answer any of her questions. She seemed to think
he was a timid little boy, who must be coaxed into knowing her; so she
talked on, in a pleasant winning voice. At last she turned to his mamma,
and said: "Your little boy can talk, I suppose, or is he too young?" Just
that moment, up spoke Brown Tommy, and what he said was: "Did you
ever count all the buttons on your dress, or don't you know how to
count so many?" This seemed to astonish the lady very much. Her dress
was trimmed in the new fashion, with rows and rows of buttons, and
Tommy, who is rather mixed up in his counting, seemed to think that it

would take a very smart woman to count them all. Having once found
his tongue, he kept on pouring out the questions till the lady must have
wondered what had become of his timidity. He asked her what was the
name of the place where she lived, and how many churches there were,
and whether she went to church every Sunday, and whether she sat as
still as a mouse.