I had just sense enough left to remember that I had on my new spring lavender pants.

The butter was disgustingly soft and mushy.
"Come here, John, and add up this bill," called father.
"I can't; I'm sick." I had got up from the tub and was leaning on the counter--I was pale, I know.
"Why, what's the matter ?" he asked.
Belle cast one guilty look in my direction.

"It's the spring weather, I dare say," she said softly to my parent.
I sneaked out of the back door and went across the yard to the house to change my pants.

I _was_ sick, and I did not emerge from my room until the dinner-bell rang.
I went down then, and found father, usually so good-natured, looking cross, as he carved the roast beef.
"You will never be good for anything, John," was his salutation--"at least, not as a clerk.

I've a good mind to write to Captain Hall to take you to the North Pole." "What's up, father ?" "Oh, nothing!" _very_ sarcastically.