"
"I am very sorry," said my father; "but can't you stay till it is time to
go home to dinner?"
I thought not--my headache was getting to be pretty severe.
"Well," said he, taking me off the horse, and no doubt suspecting that my
disease was rather in my _heart_ than my head--a suspicion far too
well-founded, I am sorry to say--"well, you may go home. I don't want you
to work if you are sick. Go straight home, and tell your mother that I say
you must take a good large dose of rhubarb. Tell her that I think it will
do you a great deal of good!"
There was no alternative. I went home, of course, and delivered the message
to my mother. I told her, however, that I thought my head was better,
hoping to avoid taking the nauseous medicine. But it was of no use. It was
too late. She understood my case as well as my father did. She knew well
enough my disease was laziness. So she prepared the rhubarb--an unusually
generous dose, I always thought--and I had to swallow every morsel of it.
Dear me! how bitter it was! It makes me sick to think of a dose of rhubarb,
let me be ever so well.
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