him into the water. I've a first-rate string in my
pocket. But here! what's the matter? what ails my pantaloons? where's my
pockets?" he continued, looking down in dismay at the strange, baggy
appearance of the garment.

The truth is, Peter's mother had been so busy looking at the spider,
that she had put on and buttoned his pantaloons the wrong side before.

Peter went on saying, "Why, mother, what's a fellow to _do_? How am I to
get my hands in my pockets?" He twisted his head over his shoulders till
he made a terrible kink in his neck, and turned his arms nearly out of
their sockets in his efforts to dive into his pockets; and there came
over his childish face such a ridiculously solemn and tragical air, that
his mother nearly died of laughter.

When she could speak she said, "You must excuse me, Peter, it was an
accident. It is very fortunate your head don't come off. If I had
buttoned _that_ the wrong side before, you would have been worse off
than a crab; they walk sideways, but you would have had to have walked
backwards."

In a few moments the pantaloons were danced off, and put on again; this
time "all right and tight," as Peter said. Then his mother washed his
face and hands, till they perfectly shone, they were so bright and
clean; and, at his earnest request, she brushed his hair very carefully,
with a seam down behind, and a flourishing curl on top, "like the
dandies."

And now the little boy's face assumed a serious, thoughtful expression,
as, kneeling by the side of his good mamma, he repeated this little
prayer:--

"Ere from my room I wend my way,
God grant me grace my prayers to say:
O God! preserve my mother dear,
In strength and health, for many a year;
And O! preserve my father, too,
And may I pay him reverence due;
And may I my best thoughts employ,
To be my parents' hope and joy:
And O! preserve my sisters dear,
From every hurtful influence here:
And may we always love each other,
Our sisters, father, and our mother;
And still, O Lord, to me impart
An innocent and grateful heart,
That, after my last sleep, I may
Awake to thy eternal day."[A]

[A] S. T. Coleridge.

After saying this beautiful prayer he ran down stairs, and out into the
sweet, fresh air, and had a glorious scamper, which gave him a famous
appetite for his breakfast.

I am obliged to tell you that my little friend Peter was as full of