She didn't watch Henry's bottle--she could trust Henry.

But she marked my bottle with a pencil, on the label, every day, and examined it to see if the teaspoonful had been removed.

The floor was not carpeted.

It had cracks in it, and I fed the Pain-Killer to the cracks with very good results--no cholera occurred down below.
It was upon one of these occasions that that friendly cat came waving his tail and supplicating for Pain-Killer--which he got--and then went into those hysterics which ended with his colliding with all the furniture in the room and finally going out of the open window and carrying the flower-pots with him, just in time for my mother to arrive and look over her glasses in petrified astonishment and say, "What in the world is the matter with Peter ?" I don't remember what my explanation was, but if it is recorded in that book it may not be the right one.
Whenever my conduct was of such exaggerated impropriety that my mother's extemporary punishments were inadequate, she saved the matter up for Sunday, and made me go to church Sunday night--which was a penalty sometimes bearable, perhaps, but as a rule it was not, and I avoided it for the sake of my constitution.

She would never believe that I had been to church until she had applied her test: she made me tell her what the text was.