He pretended not to hear the children's teasing, but it was only pretence. You see, he loved children dearly. He once had two little ones of his own, but God took them. For their dear sakes he had tender feelings toward all children, and it hurt him that these on Jefferson Square should run away from him every time he came near.
He also disliked their name for him; for his real name was Jerry, not Paddy at all. He could not help telling his Peggy about it, especially when they had been unusually thoughtless and teasing.
It was after one of such times that he said to her: "I think I'll have a little speech with 'em. I'll tell 'em that far from wanting to hurt 'em, I'll be their friend if they'll let me."
"Do, lovey," replied Mrs. Peggy, "for I'm hatin' to have 'em misjudge you."
So the very next day he pretended to be raking and sifting until they came nearer and nearer shouting their jibes and their jeers, when he quickly turned around and facing them began his speech:
"Don't fear me, chil—" was all the further he got when the rosy cheeks became as white as sheets and such scampering and rushing over one another you never saw in all your life.
After that it was three whole days before a single one of them was bold enough to come even in sight when he was bending over his work, and he missed them so that he resolved never to attempt any conversation with them again as long as he lived.