“Good jam!” assented the sick child, opening wide its mouth and smacking its lips louder still.
“It was to make her take the medicine,” explained Daddy Coax apologetically to Kitty. “I cannot bear to hear a sick child cry. It is sickness makes the little angel cross.”
“Little angel indeed!” replied Kitty shortly. “I would have given her all medicine and no jam.”
Kitty was growing severer and severer. Holding her hand the old man trotted along once more, struggling through the children, who had recovered their good-humor, and were rushing around him. He laughed feebly, he patted their heads as they thumped him on the back as if he were a drum, and squirted soapsuds into his eyes. Poor Daddy Coax wiped his eyes, sneezed, tried to look as if he enjoyed the jokes and the drummings, and presently nearly stumbled over a little girl who was knocking her doll’s head against the floor.
Bang! bang! the tiny hand struck the ground with the doll. Its nose was flattened out of all likeness to a nose, its cheeks were cracked, and its hair torn out.
“Dear! dear!” cried Daddy Coax. “What has naughty dolly done?”
“She won’t get into her fock. She will put her leg into the seeve of her fock instead of her arm,” explained little spitfire; and bang! once more went poor dolly’s face against the floor.
“Naughty dolly! naughty dolly!” cried Daddy Coax indignantly, flicking dolly with a corner of his handkerchief and then drawing a fine new doll from his pocket, with red cheeks and shining round eyes. “There’s a good dolly, a pretty dolly, with its arms in its sleeves.”
But little spitfire only snorted at sight of the new dolly, pushed away the gentle hand that offered it, and went on banging the old doll upon the floor.