“Yes; but I can’t show you how; for it is done when we don’t see.”
Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked—
“I dess Dod does it when I’s asleep.”
A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said—
“My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby? He’s getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions.”
“If he is old enough to ask the questions he is old enough to receive true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?”
If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, “By the gods, Socrates, I cannot tell,” his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, “In my little belly,” the old gentleman could only join in grandma’s laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics.
There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, “That child ain’t long for this world,” he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their parents’ souls.
Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
“No more raisins, Demi, they’ll make you sick,” says mamma to the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day.
“Me likes to be sick.”
“I don’t want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty-cakes.”
He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and, by and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a shrewd bargain.
“Now you have been good children, and I’ll play anything you like,” says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.
“Truly, marmar?” asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head.
“Yes, truly; anything you say,” replies the shortsighted parent, preparing herself to sing “The Three Little Kittens” half a dozen times over, or to take her family to “Buy a penny bun,” regardless of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply—
“Then we’ll go and eat up all the raisins.”
Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with “the bear-man” better than she did with him; but, though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn’t the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate-drops in his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes; but Demi didn’t see it in that light, and continued to patronize the “bear-man” with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of surpassing worth.
Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer’s devotion was sincere, however likewise effective—for honesty is the best policy in love as in law; he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see—well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.
Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face—
“Father, father, here’s the Professor!”
Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity—
“Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name.”
“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,”
