father had no pride about his
dress. I cut it out myself, basted it together, then sewed it with my
utmost care. There was to be no nice work about collar or wristband,--no
troublesome plaits or gussets,--no machine-made bosom to set in,--only a
few gathers,--and all plain work throughout. My mother looked at me
occasionally as the shirt progressed, but found no fault. She did not
once stop me to examine it; but I feel sure she must have scrutinized it
carefully after I had gone to bed. I was so particular in this, my first
grand effort to secure the honors of a needlewoman, that quite two days
were occupied in doing it.

When all done, I took it to mother, proud of my achievement, telling
her, that, if she had more cotton, I was ready to begin another. She
looked over it with a slowness that I am sure was intentional, and not
at all necessary. The wristbands were all right, the buttons in the
proper places, the hemming she said was done well. Then, taking it up by
the collar, and holding the garment at full length before her, so that I
could see it all, she asked me if I saw anything wrong. I looked
closely, but could see no mistake. At last she exclaimed,--

"Why, my dear Lizzie, this is only a bag with arms to it! How is your
father to get into it?"

She turned it all round before me, and showed me that I had left no
opening at the bosom and neck,--father could never get it over his head!
I cannot tell how astonished and mortified I felt. I cried as only such
a child could cry. I sobbed and begged her not to show it to father, and
promised to alter it immediately, if she would only tell me how. But,
oh, how kind my dear mother was in soothing my excited feelings! There
was not a word of blame. She made me comparatively calm by immediately
opening the bosom as it should have been done, and showing me how to
finish it. I hurried up to my chamber to be alone and out of sight. They
called me to dinner, but my appetite had gone. Though my little heart
was full, and my hand trembled, yet long before night the work was done.

Oh, how the burden rose from my spirits when my dear mother took me in
her arms, kissed me tenderly, and said that my mistake was nothing but a
trifle that I would be sure to remember, and that the shirt was far
better made than she had expected! When father came in to supper, I took
it to him and told him that _I_ had made it. He looked both surprised
and pleased, kissed me with even more than his