“Bartholomew, Grandpa wants you.” Bettina hollered.
Bartholomew raced to the front of the barn.
Thwack!
Bartholomew crashed into Bettina as he rounded the corner.
“Ow, my head,” moaned Bartholomew.
“Oh, my shoulder,” groaned Bettina.
Bartholomew touched a big lump next to his ear.
“Grandpa wants you to get dressed,” Bettina handed Bartholomew a pink and yellow polka-dot bow tie.
“Dressed?” Bartholomew sat up. He felt dizzy.
“Dressed for the holiday.” Bettina said.
“For the holiday?” Bartholomew asked.
“Yes.” Bettina pushed him toward the burrow.
He staggered to his room, opened his closet door and looked at his clothes.
Bartholomew’s head hurt.
He dropped the bowtie onto the doorknob.
“What do I wear for this holiday?” Bartholomew was puzzled.
He rubbed his sore head. “Do I wear a vest?”
He spied a red, white and blue vest with silver stars next to his handkerchiefs.
Bartholomew put on the vest.
He trotted into Grandpa’s workroom.
“You’re not Uncle Sam on the fourth of July.” Grandpa said. “Now, go get your holiday clothes.”
“Oh, posh,” Bartholomew shuffled back to his room.
Under his tennis shorts were grey pants and a black hat with a buckle.
“Maybe I wear pants,” Bartholomew tugged on the grey pants. The hat hurt his head.
Bartholomew strutted to the field where Papa harvested the last tender jellybeans.
“You’re not a Pilgrim, that’s for when we are thankful,” said Papa. “Please find your clothes, it’s getting late.”
“Oh, posh,” Bartholomew flopped into his room and bumped the wall.
A fur trimmed red hat and a black belted red jacket fell to the floor.
“Maybe I wear a jacket and a hat.” Bartholomew slipped on the jacket, buckled the belt and donned the hat.
Bartholomew pulled a gigantic bag into the basket weaver’s hut.
“You’re not Santa on December 25th,” said the basket weaver. “Where are your holiday clothes?”
“Oh, posh,” Bartholomew trudged to his room.
“Maybe I just wear this diaper and black sash.” The diaper was hard to put on but the black sash was soft.
Bartholomew twirled onto the front porch where Grandma sorted chocolaty eggs.
“You’re not a New Year baby on January first,” said Grandma. “Get dressed for the holiday, you need to hurry.”
“Oh, posh,” Bartholomew hopped to his room.
He stubbed his toe against a bow and arrow wrapped in a red sash.
“I look good in red.” Bartholomew slipped into the sash.
Bartholomew pranced into the hallway and bumped into Grandpa.
“You’re not Cupid on February fourteenth,” said Grandpa, ”Now go put on your vest.”
“Oh, posh,” Bartholomew pulled off the sash.
He spotted a green vest with tiny teeny shiny shamrocks in his cowboy boots. “Grandpa said I wore a vest.”
Bartholomew skipped into the warehouse where Mama counted yellow marshmallow chicks.
“You are not a leprechaun on March seventeenth,” sighed Mama. “Please find your holiday clothes, the holiday starts soon.”
“Oh, posh,” Bartholomew galumphed back to his room.
“Not Uncle Sam, not a Pilgrim, not Santa.” Bartholomew tossed the red, white and blue vest, the grey pants and the red jacket over his exercise bicycle.
“Not a New Year’s baby, not Cupid, and not a lucky leprechaun.” Bartholomew clipped the black sash, the bow, arrow and the green vest onto his bulletin board.
“Oh, posh, what holiday is it?” Bartholomew slammed the closet door.
The breeze tickled his fur. A flicker of yellow and pink flashed past his eyes.
The bowtie from Grandpa and a pink and yellow vest dangled from the doorknob.
Bartholomew remembered all the baskets, chocolaty eggs, jellybeans and marshmallow chicks.
“I know what holiday it is,” cried Bartholomew.
He shrugged into the vest and knotted the bow tie.
A white top hat with a pink and yellow gingham band laid on his sleeping bag. The hat matched the bow tie and vest.
“Just right,” said Bartholomew putting on the hat before he hopped out of his room.
Bartholomew grabbed his big blue backpack overflowing with the holiday treats.
“I’m dressed and ready,” called Bartholomew. He climbed onto his racing bicycle.
“Happy Easter.”