Mrs. Jones rubbed her eyes, for she had overslept herself; and as the children depended on her to awaken them in the morning, they were sleeping too. Hastening to the door, she undid the fastening, and her husband entered. "Is that you, Joseph?" she asked. "It isn't anybody else, I reckon," he gruffly answered; "but where shall I put this?" taking a quarter of venison from his shoulder, which his wife hung against the wall on a wooden peg. "I'm glad you've got back, Joseph." "Well you might be, for you came near never seeing me again." "I hope you haven't met with any mishap," said the wife, anxiously. "Nothing to speak of, only a scratch from the bullet of one of them rascally red-skins." "Why, you haven't been fighting with the Indians--have you?" "Not exactly," he answered; "I've always treated them well; but after this, if any of 'em get in my way, I shall pop at 'em before they do at me; that's all." "But how did they happen to shoot at you?" asked Mrs. Jones. "Well," said her husband, "just give me something to put on my side, for it's a grain sore after my long tramp, and cook us a venison steak, and I'll tell you all about it;" and Mr. Jones, pulling open his hunting-shirt, showed an ugly-looking flesh wound in his side. "Dear me, Joseph, you _are_ hurt," said the wife, as she carefully bandaged it, putting on a simple salve, which she always kept on hand for family use. "You look tired and pale--bringing home such a load, and bleeding all the way. Sit down, and I'll get you something to eat directly." Scarcely had he seated himself, when there was a cry of pain from Tom, and Bub came tumbling head first upon the floor; for, having seen his father, he had scrambled, without ceremony, across Tom's sore face, and receiving a push from the latter, landed upon his nose. By this time the rest of the children were awake, and shouting, "Dad's come home!" while Bub bellowed at the top of his lungs, "My nose beeds! my nose beeds!" "O, no, it don't," replied his mother, soothingly. "Well, it feels _wed_, it does!" he answered, determined to be pitied. This remark elicited peals of laughter from his brothers and sisters, which Bub taking as insults, he roared the louder. "Children," cried Mrs. Jones, "stop laughing at Bub." But he cut too comical a figure for them to stop at once, for, as he had used, the night before, one of Tom's old shirts for a night dress, he now found it difficult to move towards his father, as each time he stepped the garment would trip his feet. "Children," interposed Mr. Jones, "why don't you hush. Your marm's spoken to you a number of times already." At which Bub added with dignity, as he tried to balance himself,-- "I des they're _blind_, they're so hard o' hearin'!" "Your father," said the mother, impressively, "has been shot at by the Indians, and came very near being killed, and you ought to keep more quiet."