“I knows him!” and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly shouted, “It’s a We, Dranpa, it’s a We!”
“He’s a born Weller,” laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was over.
“What have you been at today, bubchen?” asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast.
“Me went to see little Mary.”
“And what did you there?”
“I kissed her,” began Demi, with artless frankness.
“Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?” asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.
“Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don’t little boys like little girls?” asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of bland satisfaction.
“You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?” said Jo, enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.
“’Tisn’t in mine head, it’s in mine mouf,” answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.