roger

Roger trudged home from the lake in a dreadful mood. He was muddy, soaked, drenched, sopping, unclean, saturated, itchy, awash, filthy, waterlogged, and every other kind of wet and dirty you can possibly think of. He had spent the day IN the lake instead of on it, as he had planned. But who could have planned for that surprise rainstorm, and those mean bullies, and those awful horseflies that loved his sweet skin? In his hands he held his broken fishing pole and his empty tackle box; his small boat was in pieces back at the lakeshore. But he told himself that any strong seven-year-old boy, such as himself, would not cry. Oh, no, he would not cry. He was better than that. So, with tears welling in his eyes, but not falling down his cheeks, he walked in the back door and called to his Mommy.