THE POULTICE

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 264, 3 August 1929, Page 26

THE POULTICE

A small boy had run a splinter into his foot, and his mother expressed her intention of putting a poultice on the wound.

“I won’t have any poultice!” he declared. “You will,” said his mother. “Oh, no mother!”

“Yes!" chimed mother, and grandmother, firmly. Time dragged horribly till bedtime, and at last the hated poultice was ready. Different signs and sounds warned the grown-up enemy that the attack might be a troublesome one, so it was arranged that grandmother was to apply the poultice while mother stood with uplifted stick by the bedside. The small boy was told that if he “opened his mouth” be would receive something that would quieten him. “Hot!” grandmother murmured, carrying the poultice so that her own hands did not touch it. “It must be put on hot, or it won't work!” And she put it on hot. The foot was quickly jerked backwards. “You ” began the boy. “Keep still!” said his mother, shaking her stick. Grandmother went on with the good work. Once more the little fellow opened his mouth. “I ” But the uplifted switch awed him into silence, and the wrappings were put firmly in place. He was tucked in bed, and mother, with grandmother, began a triumphant march to the door, when a shrill voice piped from under the bedclothes: “You’ve got it on the wrong foot!”—Eunice Julian. Levin.