“Medicine will make Daddy Coax’s sick lamb play again,” said the old man. He took up a powder and spoon, and after he had mixed the dose, “Good medicine first and jam after,” he said in a persuasive voice, softly trying to get the tip of the spoon inside the firmly closed lips.
Out flashed a naughty hand from under the coverlid, and away spun the medicine and the spoon to the furthest corner of the room.
“Oh, naughty! naughty!” said poor Daddy Coax, putting up his finger and trying to ruffle his forehead into a frown. “If sick lamb be naughty, sick lamb will have no jam.”
At this dreadful threat the sick face puckered itself up, and out of the wide-open mouth came a doleful howl.
Daddy Coax fell into a dreadful flurry; his mild eyes grew full of pain. He took the child out of its crib, rocked it soothingly in his arms, murmuring softly:
“Sick lamb shall have all jam and no medicine. All good jam and no naughty medicine.”
“All go—oo—od ja—am and no naugh—ty medi—cine,” agreed the sick child with big sobs.
Gently Daddy Coax put the invalid back into its crib, went to the cupboard, and took out the pot of raspberry jam. He looked over his shoulder to make sure the child was not looking, and cautiously Kitty saw him drop the powder into the jelly and turn it round and round until not a grain was to be seen.
“Good jam!” he said, smacking his lips. “Good jam!”
