There goes that word “raisin’” agi’n.

He’s been in love with his teacher, Miss Phoebe, most three years—­an’ ‘cep’n’ thet I had a sim’lar experience when I was sca’cely out o’ the cradle, why, I might ‘a’ took it mo’ serious.

That sort o’ fallin’ in love, why, it comes same ez the measles or the two-year-old teeth, an’ th’ ain’t nothin’ sweeter ef it’s took philosophical.

It’s mighty hard, though, for parents, thet knows thess how recent a child is, to reconcile the facts o’ the case with sech things ez him takin’ notice to the color o’ ribbin on a middle-aged school-teacher’s hair—­an’ it sprinkled with gray.

Sonny was worse plegged than most boys, because, havin’ two lady teachers at that time, it took him sort o’ duplicated like.

I suppose ef he’d had another, he’d ‘a’ been equally distributed on all three.

The way I look at it, a sensible, serious-minded woman thet starts out to teach school—­which little fellers they ain’t got no sense on earth, nohow—­ain’t got no business with ribbin-bows an’ ways an’ moles on their cheek-bones.  An’ ef they’ve got knuckles, they ought to be like wife’s or mine, pointed outward for useful service, instid o’ bein’ turned inside out to attract a young child’s admiration—­not thet I hold it against Miss Phoebe thet her knuckles is reversed.  Of co’se she can’t be very strong-fingered.  No finger could git much purchase on a dimple.

’T ain’t none of her fault, I know.  But Sonny has seen the day thet seem like he couldn’t talk about another thing but her an’ her dimpled knuckles—­them an’ that little brown mole thet sets out on the aidge of her eyebrow.

I think myself thet that mole looks right well, for a blemish, which wife says it is, worst kind.  But of co’se a child couldn’t be expected to know that.  It did seem a redic’lous part o’ speech the first time he mentioned sech a thing to his mother, but a boy o’ twelve couldn’t be expected to know the difference between a mountain an’ a mole-hill.

I ricollec’ he used to talk in his sleep consider’ble when he was a little chap, an’ it always fretted wife turrible.  She’d git up out o’ bed thess ez soon ez he’d begin to hold fo’th, an’ taller him over.  Whenever she didn’t seem to know what else to do, why, she’d taller him; an’ I don’t reckon there’s anything less injurious to a child, asleep or awake, than taller.

She’s tallored him for his long division, an’ she’s tallered him for that blemish on Miss Phoebe’s cheek, an’ she’s tallered him for clairin’ of his th’oat.  His other lady teacher, Miss Alviry Sawyer, she was a single-handed maiden lady long’bout wife’s age, an’ she didn’t have a feature on earth thet a friend would seem to have a right to mention, she not bein’ to blame; but she had a way o’ clairin’ her th’oat, sort o’ polite, befo’ she’d open her mouth to speak.  Sonny, he seemed to think it was mighty graceful the way she done it, an’ he’s often imitated it in his little sleep—­nights when he’d eat hot waffles for his supper.