"I've got to go through with it now if it kills me," I thought.
Mother asked me why I ate no breakfast.
"Saving my appetite for the picnic," I responded, cheerfully; which was one of the white lies my miserable bashfulness made me tell every day of my life--I knew that I should go dinner-less at the picnic unless I could get behind a tree with my plate of goodies.
I never to this day can abide to eat before strangers; things _always_ go by my windpipe instead of my aesophagus, and I'm tired to death of scalding my legs with hot tea, to say nothing of adding to one's embarrassment to have people asking if one has burned oneself, and feeling that one has broken a cup out of a lady's best china tea-set.
But about tea and tea-parties I shall have more to say hereafter.

I must hurry on to my first picnic, where I made my first public appearance as the Bashful Man.
I made a neat toilet--a fresh, light summer suit that I flattered myself beat any other set of clothes in Babbletown--ordered Joe, our chore-boy, to bring the buggy around in good order, with everything shining; and when he had done so, had the horse tied in front of the store.
"Come, my boy," said father, after a while, "it's ten minutes to ten.
Never keep the ladies waiting." "Yes, sir; as soon as I've put these raisins away." "Five minutes to ten, John.

Don't forget the lemons." "No, sir." But I _did_ forget them in my trepidation, and a man had to be sent back for them afterward.
It was just ten when I stepped into the buggy with an attempt to appear in high spirits.

As I drove slowly toward Squire Marigold's large mansion on Main Street, I met dozens of gay young folks on the way out of town, some of them calling out that I would be late, and to try and catch up with them after I got my girl.
As I came in sight of the house my courage failed.

I turned off on a by-street, drove around nearly half a mile, and finally approached the object of my dread from another direction.