s away, spilling it at every step; and the louder I
call, the faster he runs, half frightened, half roguish, till an
unmistakable sharpness pierces him, makes him throw down cup and seed
together, and fling himself full length on the floor, his little heart
all broken. Indeed, he can bear anything but displeasure. He tumbles
down twenty times a day, over the crickets, off the chairs, under the
table, head first, head last, bump, bump, bump, and never a tear sheds
he, though his stern self-control is sometimes quite pitiful to see. But
a little slap on his cheek, which is his standing punishment,--not a
blow, but a tiny tap that must derive all its efficacy from its moral
force,--oh, it stabs him to the heart! He has no power to bear up
against it, and goes away by himself, and cries bitterly, sonorously,
and towards the last, I suspect, rather ostentatiously. Then he spoils
it all by coming out radiant, and boasting that he has "make tear," as
if that were an unparalleled feat. If you attempt to chide him, he puts
up his plump hand with a repelling gesture, turns away his head in
disgust, and ejaculates vehemently, "Don' talk t' me!" After all,
however, I do not perceive that he is any more sensitive to reproof than
an intelligent and petted dog.

His logical faculty develops itself somewhat capriciously, but is very
prompt. He seldom fails to give you a reason, though it is often of the
Wordsworthian type,--

"At Kilve there was no weathercock,
And that's the reason why."

"Don' talk t' me! I little Min-nee-so-toh boy!"--as if that were an
amnesty proclamation. You invite him to stay with you, and let Papa go
to Minnesota without him. He shakes his head dubiously, and protests,
with solemn earnestness, "Mus' go Min-nee-so-toh ca'y my fork," which,
to the world-incrusted mind, seems but an inadequate pretext. I want him
to write me a letter when he is gone away; but, after a thoughtful
pause, he decides that he cannot, "'cause I got no pen." If he is not in
a mood to repeat the verse you ask for, he finds full excuse in the
unblushing declaration, "I bashful." He casts shadows on the wall with
his wreathing, awkward little fingers, and is perfectly satisfied that
they are rabbits, though the mature eye discerns no resemblance to any
member of the vertebrate family. He gazes curiously to see me laugh at
something I am reading,--"What 'at? my want to see,"--and climbs up to
survey the page with wistful eyes;