"They're
Death flying round at night--the angel o' Death for rats an'
rabbits an' birds an' other little creatures. Once,--oh, many
years ago,--it seemed so everything was made to kill. Men were
like beasts o' prey, most of 'em; an' they're not all gone yet.
Went around day an' night killing. I declare they must have had
claws. Then came the Prince o' Peace."
"What did he do to 'em, mother?" said Paul--a boy of seven.
"Well, he began to cut their claws for one thing," said the mother.
"Taught 'em to love an' not to kill. Shall I read you the
story--how he came in a manger?"
"B'lieve I'd rather hear about Injuns," said the boy.
"We shall hear about them too," the mother added. "They're like
folks o' the olden time. They make a terrible fuss; but they've
got to hold still an' have their claws cut."
Presently she sat down by a table, where there were candles, and
began reading aloud from a county paper. She read anecdotes of
men, remarkable for their success and piety, and an account of
Indian fighting, interrupted, as a red man lifted his tomahawk to
slay, by the rattle of an arrow on the buttery door.
It was off the cross-gun of young Paul. He had seen everything in
the story and had taken aim at the said Indian just in the nick of
time.
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