On July third Percy’s mama went up to wake him.
He cried out when she kissed him, “Oh, mama, I was having a splendid
dream! I had just put eighteen packs of fire-crackers in a barrel under
your window, and set them off, and they were _just_ going to _bang_!”
“Never mind,” said mama, laughing. “You will get all the bang you want
to-morrow.”
About ten o’clock mama missed Percy.
There were “symptoms” of him everywhere; his little straw hat on the hall
floor, his top in the dining-room, his cars in the parlor, his dog in
the porch, his bicycle down by the front gate. But no Percy.
Finally she went upstairs, and there was Percy stretched out on his
little brass bed, his eyes shut tight.
“Why, Percy,” said mama, as she bent over him, and he opened his eyes.
“Are you sick?”
“No, Mama, but it’s a dreadful long time till to-morrow, and I was trying
to piece out my dream so’s to hear the bang! Oh, I’m so sorry you woke me
up this morning!”
_L. E. Chittenden._