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Updated: May 7, 2025
She's always cryin' an' wringin' her hands, an' sighin', 'Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor boy, my poor blind boy! till it's enough to make a saint say, 'Gosh!" "Well, that's only showin' sympathy, Susan," defended Mrs. McGuire. "I'm sure she ought not to be blamed for that." "He don't want sympathy or, if he does, he hadn't ought to have it."
"Bedtime for li'l boys, Keith," his sister reminded him. "Oh, lemme stay up a while longer," he begged. Joyce was firm. She had schooled her impulses to resist the little fellow's blandishments, but Dave noticed that she was affectionate even in her refusal. "I'll come up and say good-night after a while, Keithie," she promised as she kissed him.
"Of course, you don't want any breakfast, you poor, sightless lamb," she moaned. "And I don't blame you. Oh, Keithie, Keithie, when I see you lying there like that, with your poor useless eyes ! But you must eat, dear, you must eat. Now, come, just a weeny, teeny mouthful to please auntie!"
An' she says, 'Of course, you're too tired, Keithie, dear! An' there he lies, day in an' day out, with his poor sightless eyes turned to the wall. He won't eat a thing hardly, except what I snuggle up when she's out airin' herself. He ain't keen on bein' fed with a spoon like a baby. No boy with any spunk would be." "But can he feed himself?" "Of course he can if he gets a chance!
Burton, cryin' an' wringin' your hands an' moanin', 'Oh, Keithie, darling! won't make a boy grow red blood an' make you feel so fine you want to knock a man down! Mr. Burton, I want you to tell that woman to let me take care of that boy for jest one week ONE WEEK, an' her not to come near him with her snivelin' an' "
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