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Children Should Be
Seen, Not Read lb
your No. 1 protection against infection
by Dick Emmons
I don't like to appear immodest, but to
my three children I am some
thing of an idol. This is especially
true of Ann, our seven-year-old daugh
ter, who views me as a pleasant mix
ture of Abraham Lincoln, the Lone
Ranger, and Donald Duck.
She often interrupts me, craving my
company. When I'm reading, for in
stance. And what father can resist a
winsome, sweet-faced little girl who
rips the book from his hand, ties his
feet together with her skipping rope,
and accidentally knocks an ash tray
into his lap while jerking his glasses
down his nose?
In the cozy father-daughter talks that
follow these overtures, my mature
brain leads her untrained little mind
through a broad gamut of educational
and inspiring subjects.
Just the other night she ambushed
me in the living room and said, "Golly,
you must be smart. You read books
and things all the time."
"Reading is the path to knowledge,"
I said simply.
"Read me what you're reading," she
pleaded winningly.
"You wouldn't be interested, honey,"
I said quickly. "Daddy's improving his
mind. Go play."
"Do you want me to scream? I
scream good."
"Okay, okay," I gave in, looking
around nervously for signs of my wife.
"I'll read just a little bit." I lowered
my voice. " Til give it to you where it
hurts!' Sloan said, wiping the blood
from his hairy forearm. 'Keep the
dough, keep the blonde if you want;
8 Family Weekly, January 19. 1058
just let me live!' the sniveler begged."
"Gee!" Ann gasped.
"That's enough for right now," I said
hastily. "Why don't you go trap some
more beetles or something?"
To my surprise, the girl leaped from
my lap and, firing her six-gun wildly,
galloped off. Naturally, I reopened the
book to see if Sloan would take the
blonde. If he didn't and she was any
thing like the girl on the cover, he was
an absolute fool.
My concentration was interrupted by
a tete-a-tete between my wife and
daughter in the kitchen.
"Hands up, Mommy!" Ann ordered.
"Ooh, don't shoot!" her mother
mocked.
"I'll give it to you where it hurts!"
Ann said.
"What did you say?" my wife roared.
I loped for the back hallway.
"Come back here!" my bride com
manded sternly.
I edged into the kitchen, secreting
my book behind a picture on the wall.
"Did Ann learn that from you?" she
demanded.
"Learn what?" I asked in a hurt tone.
"I'll give it to you " Ann began to
chant loudly.
"Never mind!" her mother shrieked.
"Now keep calm, sweet," I started.
"Keep still!" my wife barked.
"Keep the dough, keep the blonde,
and let me live!" Ann burst out.
Things got a little fuzzy for the next
few minutes and I guess I made some
feverish promises in the heat of the
moment. Anyway, I'm now reading a
book called "Edna Treadway Goes to
Finishing School." It isn't exactly racy
but it's absolutely safe.