pants is a very simple matter. I dread to think that you are
telling him to tear his kilts "all to splinters." Of course that
can be done. You hook the skirt over a paling in the fence; then
you jump, and sometimes, David, it hurts when you hit the ground.
But what matter? You are fighting in a noble cause. Mother will
be so astonished! She will see how desperately you have outgrown
your kilts.

Only she did not see it. She picked the splinters out of David's
hands--cruel splinters from the fence--and she was very sorry for
her little boy. And as for the dresses, it was no great matter
about them. She would make other dresses for her David.

And that is why Mitchell Horrigan's recipe for pants is not a
good recipe. Even at the end of a week David could not report
much progress. Finally he had to acknowledge himself defeated. He
then bore the dishonor of kilts with what manfulness he could and
with a creed which was recited something like this:

"We don't care to play with Mitch any more, do we, Mother?"

Or again:

"We don't care nothing about trouvers, do we, Mother?"

Sometimes David would ask with husky heroism:

"Curls is all right for little boys, is they not?"

David was angry with Mitch; David was never going to speak to