HOW DORR FOUGHT.
BY SALOME.
LITTLE Dorr Eastman always wore his sword—in the daytime, I mean. He would have liked to wear it at night—indeed, he tried it once; but as the belt was indispensable, and that was exceedingly rasping and uncomfortable with a night-gown, and as he often rolled upon the sword itself, and the sword, being hard, hurt his soft, plump side, and his soft, plump limbs, he gave it up, regretfully, since it was Dorr’s belief that “real truly” soldiers always slept with their “arms” on. And Dorr “knew”—for was not his brother Dick a colonel, and his father a general, and his grandfather a general?
But, then, they had been at West Point, and got toughened. After he grew up and had been at West Point, and had undergone discipline, doubtless a belt would not be uncomfortable in bed, and a sword could be worn with a night-gown!
The fancy-store in the village where Dorr’s papa owned a summer mansion, drove a flourishing trade during the season in gilt papers, and mill-boards, and tinsels; for, once a week, at least, the young soldier fashioned new stripes and epaulets; one day being a sergeant, on the next a major; and then, for days together, commander-in-chief U. S. A., during which space mamma, and Trudie, and Soph addressed him as His Excellency. Every stick which he could hew into the shape of a horse’s head, became a gallant charger, until mamma’s hall was one long, vast stable; mamma blew a whistle forreveillé; and the embryo cadet thought nothing of turning out at five in the morning, and splashing into a cold tub, especially on picnic mornings. But Dorr said he was hardening for West Point and glorious campaigns.
“Hold your Hand, now.”
“Hold your Hand, now.”
His greatest anxiety was concerning these campaigns. “Mamma,” he said to her one day, “I fears there’s no use in me growing up!”
“Why, Your Excellency? It grieves me to hear that,” said mamma.
“’Cause everybody will be fighted out before that, mamma. Colonel Dick says they settle things now, and not fight.”
“Well, my little son, there will always be men who must wear swords, to make people afraid, so that they will think it is the safer way to settle without a war. My little Dorr shall be one of those men, and a great share of the time he will be home on furlough and stay with mamma. Won’t he like that?”
“No, he wouldn’t!” cried Dorr, stoutly, swelling up after the manner of colonels and generals. After a turn or two across the room, he came back to his mamma’s knee. “It’s likely, though, there’ll be Injuns. There always was Injuns in this land, Trudie says, and if they’s lasted s’long, it’s likely they’ll last s’long as I live; and Dick says there’ll be always war s’long as there’s Injuns!”
“O! my little blue-eyed Dorr,” said mamma, “wouldn’t you care to be scalped?”
“Why’d I care?” answered Dorr. “Wouldn’t my ‘feet be to the foe’?”
Mamma could not but laugh at her stern little man; and then she thought he had better go with the girls in the garden.
And there he was not a moment too soon. The sacred inclosure was already invaded by a ruthless hand—a fat, yellowish-black little hand, which was thrust through the paling, evidently after one of Soph’s treasures—the beautiful rose-pink dwarf dahlia.
Dorr saw it. “Soph! Soph! he’s breaking off your new Mex’can Lilliput dahlia!” and headlong went Sergeant Dorr toward the fence; but, half way there, he tripped in the tall asters, and crushed dozens of mamma’s choice autumn blooms as he fell.
Soph and Trudie both came running down the gravel. The boy behind the paling also ran, or would, had not the fat arm been thrust in too far; for, turning it in haste, it stuck fast, and now held him Sergeant Dorr’s prisoner.
His fall had made Sergeant Dorr very mad; and, picking himself up, he drove toward the paling in hot haste. “You flower-thief! them’s Soph’s flowers! You clear out of this, or I’ll shoot you with my sword!”
And the sword was brandished; and as Roly-poly couldn’t “clear out,” much as he wished, he staid, his hand still clasping the stalk of the “Mex’can Lilliput,” which he seemed unable to let go. Seeing that, down came Dorr’s wooden sword upon the arm! It was a sturdy stroke, too, so sturdy that the sword bounded and flew over on the other side, where an angry little bare black foot kicked it far out into the road, while the owner of the foot howled with pain.
“Dorr Eastman!” cried Trudie.
“You cruel, cruel boy!” cried Soph.
“He no bus’ness with your flowers, then!” said Dorr, crowding back an angry whimper.
“I’ve a mind to shake you!” said Trudie. But, instead, she went to the fence where the little bow-legged mulatto, still howling, was trying to get free.
“Little boy,” said she, “I’m sorry; but it is wrong to steal!”
“But we done got no flowers of our own,” said he; “and besides, I hain’t broke it. O, dear, where’s mammy? I hain’t gooine to stay hyer—don’t! don’t!” He howled louder than ever as Trudie took his arm.
“Hush up, simpleton! I’m only going to get you out.” With a firm grasp she turned his arm where he might draw it back. “There, I’ll let you out now, if you will stand still a moment after I let go.”
The boy sobbed mightily, but stood still. “Stand there till I tell you to go,” commanded Trudie. Then she broke one of her own flowers for him, and also went into her pocket. “Hold your hand, now,” said she.
Sobbing, and with hidden face, the small ragamuffin held up his hand, and Trudie poured into it a stream of pennies and candies. “The flower,” said she, “is because you like pretty things. The rest is to pay you for being struck.”
The tawny little hand dashed the “pay” to the ground. “I can’t be paid for being struck!” he cried, baring his tearful eyes, and gleaming with them at the “sergeant.”
“What’s all this?” asked mamma, coming down the walk.
He tumbled into her Arms Head first.
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.
ALL THE WAY TO CANADA.