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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 82

Lazy Dick : a Story for Little Folks

page 7

Lazy Dick : a Story for Little Folks.

"Richard, where's the hoe? "

"In the handle, I s'pose !"

"O Richard ! is that the way to answer your poor old grandmother? "

"Well, where else is the hoe? "

"It may not be anywhere else; but the handle should be in your two hands, Richard, and you know it. Your grandfather works very hard, and you ought to take hold and help him. You have no excuse for not helping

your old grandpa, Richard."

"Yes, I have."

"I should like for you to name it."

"I want to wear out the oldest first," and Richard laughed at his wit.

"Why, Richard!" said his grandmother, looking at him reprovingly, over her spectacles. "What would your grandpa say if he should hear that? Now, go along—there's a good boy—and get your hoe and hoe one row, if no more."

Richard started to go, but stopped to brush some mud off his pants—with the shoe-brush! He was too lazy to go up to his room for a clothes-brush; and, indeed, have brushed thorn at all, only his grandmother had told him so often to keep his clothes clean.

As he went out he stumbled over Max, the dog, lying in the shade under the grape arbor.

"Oh, I wish I was a dog !" exclaimed Richard, as Max stretched himself lazily and rolled over. "Dogs have such nice, easy times, with nothing to do but eat, and sleep, and loll around. Oh, don't I wish I was a dog !" and, so saying, Hung himself down upon the green grass in the shade of a Baldwin apple-tree.

All at once he attempted to arise, and found himself standing upon four legs instead of two.

"Why, what does this mean? " he ejaculated, surveying himself. "How queer I do feel, anyhow!"

All at once he discovered that he was no longer a boy, bat a great, black, shaggy-dog.

"Oh, this is splendid !" he thought. "Now I sha'n't have to help grandpa hoe. Fol-lol de-rol, right fol-de-leddy, oh !"

But, instead of singing it, what was his surprise to hear a gruff "bow-wow-wow" issue from his month.

"But that is simply dog-fashion," he thought, as he stretched himself out and went to sleep.

By and by he awoke and thought he would like to have a piece of his grandmother's nice gingerbread, and he trotted off towards the house. His grandfather was just coming from the cornfield, and as he espied him he exclaimed :

"Get out, you mangy-looking dog, you ! What are you doing here? Max ! Max ! drive this miserable-looking cur out of the yard !"

Richard commenced to say," It isn't a dog, grandpa. It is I—Dick—your grandson; "but all the noise he could make was a succession of short, sharp barks. But away came Max, at his master's call, and flew at him in a great rage, apparently. He ran as fast as his four legs would carry him down the lane, Max after him, grating his teeth and barking furiously. When he had reached a respectful distance he stopped, and Max went back. While he stood wondering which way he should go, began throwing stones at him.

(To be Continued.)