The boys used to sleep upstairs, the girls downstairs. After the older boys had grown and left home I was the only one left upstairs. Father had one of the downstairs bedrooms, and Fanny had the other.
We were a sleepy-headed family. After a hard day's work we were trying to read and keep from going to sleep. Fanny eventually went to bed, leaving father and I nodding to sleep. Finally Dad woke up, realized it was time to go to bed, and tried to get me awake. He thought he had me awake, and I started up the steps
I was trying to get my pants off on the way upstairs. I wasn't awake enough to know what I was doing, and the pant didn't want to come off. So I reached into my pocket and got my pocket knife, opened it up, and started to cut my pants legs. I split them wide open, from the bottom up. I got one of them that way and started up on the other one, when I woke up enough to know what I was doing.
That was a pretty good pair of trousers, and I knew I'd done the wrong thing and didn't want my sister, who had made the trousers, to know what I'd done, because she'd tell Dad and I'd get a scolding.
I didn't like scoldings, because sometimes it'd be more than just a scolding, if you know what I mean.
I managed to get that pair of pants out of the upstairs somehow without anyone knowing. I carried them off better than a mile from where we lived and put them in the attic of the little house where we first lived.
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