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Updated: April 30, 2025
There was your little cap that I worked myself, and your poor little nankeen jacket that you were so proud to throw off oh! and many other relies of you when you were little Sisty, and I was not the cold, formal "Mother" you call me now, but dear "Mamma." I kissed them, Sisty, and said, "My little child is coming back to me again!"
"I hope," said my mother, "that they are doing Sisty justice. I do think he is not nearly so quick a child as he was before he went to school. I wish you would examine him, Austin." "I have examined him, my dear. It is just as I expected; and I am quite satisfied." "What! you really think he has come on?" said my mother, joyfully. "He does not care a button for botany now," said Mr. Squills.
"It will indeed be a great thing for Sisty," said she, timidly; and then, taking courage, she added "and that is just the sort of life he is formed for." "Hem!" said my uncle. My father rubbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and replied, after a long pause, "You may be right, Kitty: I don't think Pisistratus is meant for study; action will suit him better. But what does this office lead to?"
Was it only a pretty child after all? Alas! it would be well if all we mistake for fairies at the first glance could resolve themselves only into pretty children. "Come," answered the child, with a foreign accent, and taking my father by the lappet of his coat, "come, poor papa is so ill! I am frightened! come, and save him." "Certainly," exclaimed my father, quickly. "Where's my hat, Sisty?
I was, in truth, nearly seventeen, and I gave myself the airs of a man. Now, be it observed that that crisis in adolescent existence wherein we first pass from Master Sisty into Mr. Pisistratus, or Pisistratus Caxton, Esq.; wherein we arrogate, and with tacit concession from our elders, the long-envied title of young man, always seems a sudden and imprompt upshooting and elevation.
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