He tumbled into her Arms Head first.
Hearing the story, she went outside, and bared the beaten arm. There was a frightful lump on the soft, black baby flesh. She looked up at her little soldier ruefully, and he ran off.
She took the child in, and bathed the bruise with camphor, picked him a gorgeous bouquet, and sent him home with various admonitions and tendernesses. Then she waited for Dorr to come.
By and by he came. He was still without his sword. He rushed to her, as she turned at the sound of the little footstep, and tumbled into her arms head first.
“Mamma,” he said, “I have martial-courted myself! I runned after him, but he wouldn’t strike me. Then I thought what you said ’bout ‘kisses for blows,’ but he wouldn’t kiss me; but I know’d there should be a kiss somewheres, ’cause ’twas your kind of a battle, not papa’s; so I gave him my sword, and asked him to come to play—and—well, mamma, I haven’t got any sword no more!”
The little heart heaved; but mamma hugged him close, and shed a glad tear to think her teaching had had its effect as well as papa’s.
“My kind of battles are very hard, much harder to be fought than papa’s,” she said, “and Dorr is braver than if he had killed a hundred men.”
ALL THE WAY TO CANADA.
