Oh!! I will be good! Oh! Papa! Oh, Miss Birch, do let me go!"
Papa, in quite an excited tone, (for I could see nothing), "So you mean to be good in future! Do you feel the birch is doing you good already? Ha! ha!! my little Lucille, you must have a little more yet to make a perfect cure of you idleness." Whack—whack—whack—whack—four more cuts, each one more agonizing than the last, in spite of my sobbing and screaming. "Now, Miss Birch," he continued, "let her feel it on the bare flesh, open her drawers so we can see the effects of the cuts."
This was at once done, as I cried, "Ah! Ah!! No! No!! Oh, Papa! How cruel!"
Papa.—What a sight. The rod has made her bottom blush finely. It's best to make her feel sore a few days, or she will soon forget it, and relapse into her old ways."
The drawers were unbuttoned, and I could feel they were quite pulled down my thighs,
