Characters:--Geordie, a boy about twelve years old; Miss Watson and Geordie’s three sisters, all fashionable young ladies; a foppish young man, a clerk, with an exceedingly long mustache; Peters, red-haired and freckled; Mr. Courtenay, a lawyer, who carries his head away up in the air.

To-day I was let set up in a arm-chair, tucked up in a quilt.^[1] I soon got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to git me a glass o’ ice water to squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into Susan’s room to look at all them photographs of nice young men she’s got there in her bureau drawer.

The girls was all down in the parlor, ’cos Miss Watson had come to call. Betty she come a huntin’ of me, but I hid in the closet behind a ole hoop-skirt. I come out when she went down stairs, an’ had a real good time. Some o’ them photographs was written on the back like this:

“Conseated fop!”

“Oh, ain’t he sweet?”

“A perfick darling.”

“What a mouth!”

“Portrait of a donkey!”

I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I get well--’n’ then shut the drawer, so’s Sue wouldn’t know they’s took.

I couldn’t bear to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired of it, ’n’ I thot I’d pass my time playin’ I’s a young lady. I found a lot o’ little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my forehead with a bottle o’ mewsilage. Then I seen some red stuff on a sawser, wich I rubbed onto my cheeks.^[2]

Wen I was all fixed up I slid down the bannisters, plump agin Miss Watson, wot was a sayin’ good-by to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they made!

Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie: “Geordie, where did you get them pretty red cheeks?”

Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t pay no ’tention to it.

“I found some red stuff in Sue’s buro,” sez I--’n’ she smiled kind o’ hateful ’n’ said:

“O-o-o-h!”^[3]

Wich my sister says she is a awful gossip, wot’ll tell all over town that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that stuff was just to make red roses on card-board, wich is all right.

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

“Aha, Missy,” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them photographs wot I took out o’ your buro!”

Some folks think little boys’ ears are made o’ purpose to be boxed--my sisters do. If they knew how it riled me up they’d be more careful.

I laid low--but beware to-morrow.

This morning they let me come down to breakfast.

I’ve got all those pictures in my pockets, you bet your sweet life.

“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a chance to slip out un-be-known.

“Oh, things,” sez I--’n’ she laughed.

I got off down town, an’ had piles o’ fun. I called on every one o’ them aboriginals of them photographs.

“Hello, Geordie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.

Oh, my! when I get big enuff I hope my mustaches won’t be waxed like his ’n! He’s in a store, ’n’ I got him to give me a nice cravat, ’n’ he ast me, “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his photograph and gave it to him.

It was the one that had “Conseated Fop” written on the back. The girls had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, ’n’ made him smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, ’n’ then he scowled at me.^[4]

“Who did that, you little rascal?” “I guess the spirits done it” I said, as onest as a owl--’n’ then went away real quick ’cause he looked mad.

The next place I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man lived. He had red hair, an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a beauty. I said:

“Hello, Peters!”

He said: “The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help yourself.”

Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treated well, I notiss. I took a big handful o’ raisins, ’n’ a few peanuts, ’n’ sot on the counter eating ’em, till all at onst, as if I jest tho’t of it, I took out his photograph an’ squinted at it, an sez:

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let’s see it,” sez he.

I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back: “He ast me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as a rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.^[5]

“It’s a burning shame” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun o’ their bows.”

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins ’n’ quietly disappeared. I tell you he was wrathy.

Mister Courtenay he’s a lawyer ’n’ got a offis on the square by the court-house. I knew him very well, ’cos he comes to our house offen. He’s a awful queer lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he was tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks says it is, the way he keeps his nose up in the air. He’s got a deep, deep voice--way down in his boots. My heart beat wen I got in there, I was that frightened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:

“Is the ‘What is It’ on exabishun to-day?”

“Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down at me.

“Sue said if I would come to your offis I would see wot this is the picture of,” sez I--given’ him his own photograph inscribed “The Wonderful What is It.”

It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.

In about a minute he up with his foot--which I dodged just in time.^[6]

Well, sir, I give them cards all back afore dinner time. I expect there.’ll be a row. I’ve laughed myself almost to fits thinkin’ of the feller wot I give the “Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress-fallen. I do believe he cried.

Wen I got home they wuz teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party next week. I don’t believe one o’ them young men ’ll come to it; the girls have give ’em dead away. I don’t care, worth a cent. Wot for makes ’em box my ears ’f they want me to be good to ’em?