“Dear me, Joseph, you are hurt,” said the wife, as she carefully bandaged it, putting on a simple salve, which she always kept on hand for family use. “You look tired and pale–bringing home such a load, and bleeding all the way. Sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat directly.”
Scarcely had he seated himself, when there was a cry of pain from Tom, and Bub came tumbling head first upon the floor; for, having seen his father, he had scrambled, without ceremony, across Tom’s sore face, and receiving a push from the latter, landed upon his nose.
By this time the rest of the children were awake, and shouting, “Dad’s come home!” while Bub bellowed at the top of his lungs, “My nose beeds! my nose beeds!”
“O, no, it don’t,” replied his mother, soothingly. 49
“Well, it feels wed, it does!” he answered, determined to be pitied.
This remark elicited peals of laughter from his brothers and sisters, which Bub taking as insults, he roared the louder.
“Children,” cried Mrs. Jones, “stop laughing at Bub.”
But he cut too comical a figure for them to stop at once, for, as he had used, the night before, one of Tom’s old shirts for a night dress, he now found it difficult to move towards his father, as each time he stepped the garment would trip his feet.
“Children,” interposed Mr. Jones, “why don’t you hush. Your marm’s spoken to you a number of times already.”
At which Bub added with dignity, as he tried to balance himself,–