all--except maybe germs. And who ever saw a real live germ walking
around, except, perhaps, doctors looking through microscopes? And,
besides, germs are too tiny to make a real big boy with pockets in his
trousers, and a reader, and a geography, go to bed.

But that is just what had happened to Marmaduke.

He hadn't felt so sick in the daytime--just sort of dreamy, and not
like playing at all. He only wanted to lie where he could watch the
fingers of the sun-beams stray over the rag rug and pick out the
pretty colors in it, and where he could see Mother and call to her
when he wanted her. That was always important--to have her near.

At supper all Mother would give him was a cup of warm milk. She said
he couldn't have anything solid, not even bread. But after all,
perhaps it was better, for his appetite wasn't so very big. He had
only asked because he thought he ought to have things Jehosophat had,
and didn't want to be deprived of any of his privileges.

Those two round things--like cherries--stuck in his throat so. What
was it the doctor called them? Tonsils, that was it. And they felt as
big as footballs now, and, oh, so sore!

The doctor decided he had "tonsil-eatus"--a funny name. He called out
to Mother to inquire if they would really "eat us"--and how they could
"eat us" when they were in your throat already. He felt rather proud
of that joke and better for having made it--for a little while,
anyway.

There was one "'speshully fine" thing about being sick. Mother would