“Unless you get out an injunction against me,” smiled the physician. “Bobs had a pretty tough time of it for the first week when he changed to flannels. He’s thin-skinned, and the rough wool irritated him pretty badly. In fact, he had a slight fever for two days. It isn’t worth that suffering. Besides, he’s a full-blooded youngster, and doesn’t need the extra warmth. You can’t dress all children alike in material any more than you can dress them all from the same pattern.” “Then I want to leave off mine, too,” announced Charles. “Nonsense! You little ruffian, you could wear sandpaper on that skin of yours. Don’t talk to me, or next time I see you without your overcoat I’ll order a hair shirt for you.” “I’ve never thought much about the children’s clothes, except to change between the seasons,” confessed Mrs. Clyde. “I supposed that was all there is to it.” “Not wholly. I once knew a man who died from changing his necktie.” “Did he put on a red tie with a pink shirt?” interestedly queried Manny, who had reached the age where attire was becoming a vital interest. “He changed abruptly from the big puff-tie which he had worn all winter, and which was a regular chest-protector, to a skimpy bow, thereby exposing a weak chest and getting pneumonia quite naturally. Yet he was ordinarily a cautious old gentleman, and shifted the weight of his underclothes by the calendar—a rather stupid thing to do, by the way.” “On the first of November,” began Grandma Sharpless severely— “Yes, I know,” cut in the Health Master. “Your whole family went into flannels whether the thermometer was twenty or seventy. And we’ve seen it both, more than once on that date.” “What harm did it ever do them?” “Bodily discomfort. In other words, lessened vitality. Think how much nervous wear is suffered by a child itching and squirming in a scratchy suit of heavy flannels on a warm day.” “Children can’t be changing from one weight to another every day, can they?” asked Mrs. Clyde. “No need of that. But in the fall and spring we can regulate that matter a little more by the thermometer, and a little less by the almanac. There is also the consideration of controlling heat. Now, Charley, what would you think of a man who, in June, say, with the mercury at seventy-five, wandered around in a heavy suit and his winter flannels.” “I’d think he was sick,” said the nine-year-old promptly, “or else foolish. But what makes you ask me?” “Just by way of calling your attention to the thermometer, which in this room stands at seventy-nine. And here we all sit, dressed twenty-five per cent warmer than if we were out doors in a June temperature several degrees colder. You’re the Committee on Air and Light, Charley. I think this matter of heat ought to come within your province.” “And it makes you feel so cold when you go out,” said Julia.