seven o'clock
Teddy had never deserved this terrible fate , but he did not like the Cold Lairs , where his little crash wash-rag and his tiny toothbrush glimmered at him in the half-light , and where he always smelled the raw smell of the lemon his mother kept to whiten her hands . He idolized his mother ; they had a separate game for every hour and every undertaking of his happy day . He climbed out of his crib , in his little faded blue pajamas , for uproarious tumbling and pillow-fighting every morning . Then it was seven o'clock , and she told him a story while she dressed , and recited poems and answered his questions . There was a game about getting all the tangles out of his hair , the father and mother tangles , and the various children , and even the dog and cat . Then for months it was a game to have her go on washing Teddy 's face as long as he cried , and stop short when he stopped , so that after a while he did not cry at all . But by that time he could spell `` Hot '' and `` Cold '' from the faucets , and could clean out the wash-stand with great soaping and scrubbing all by himself .