court or field can bestow; but even this honor is far surpassed by
that which comes to a man when a woman of rare intelligence, tact and
knowledge of society and the world, unburdens her heart of all its
hopes and fears, and unhesitatingly leaves her destiny to be shaped
by his love. Women like Alice Mayton do not thus give themselves
unreservedly away, except when their trust is born of knowledge as
well as affection, and the realization of all this changed me on that
afternoon from whatever I had been, into what I had long hoped I might
one day be.

But the hours flew rapidly, and I reluctantly turned the horses’ heads
homeward. We had left almost the whole of “Happy Valley” behind us, and
were approaching residences again.

“Now we must be very proper,” said Alice.

“Certainly,” I replied, “here’s a good-by to happy nonsense for this
afternoon.”

I leaned toward her, and gently placed one arm about her neck; she
raised her dear face, from which joy and trust had banished every
indication of caution and reserve, my lips sought hers, when suddenly
we heard a most unearthly, discordant shriek, which presently
separated into two, each of which prolonged itself indefinitely. The
horses started, and Alice—blessed be all frights now, henceforth and
forevermore!—clung tightly to me. The sounds seemed to be approaching
us, and were accompanied by a lively rattling noise, that seemed to
be made by something wooden. Suddenly, as we approached a bend in
the road, I saw my youngest nephew appear from some unknown space,
describe a parabolic curve in the air, ricochet slightly from an earthy
protuberance in the road, and make a final stop in the gutter. At the
same time, there appeared from behind the bend, the goat, then the
carriage dragging on one side, and, lastly, the boy Budge, grasping
tightly the back of the carriage body, and howling frightfully. A
direct collision between the carriage and a stone caused Budge to loose
his hold, while the goat, after taking in the scene, trotted leisurely
off, and disappeared in a road leading to the house of his late owner.

“Budge,” I shouted, “stop that bawling and come here! Where’s Mike?”

“He—boo—hoo—went to—boo—light—his—boo—hoo—hoo—pipe, an’ I just let
the—boo—hoo—whip go against to the goat, an’ he scattooed.”

“Nashty old goat scaddooed,” said Toddie, in corroboration.

“Well, walk right home, and tell Maggie to wash and dress you,” said I.

“O Harry,” pleaded Alice, “after they’ve been in such danger! Come
here to your own Aunt Alice, Budgie, dear,—and you, too, Toddie,—you
know you said we could pick the boys up on the road, Harry. There,
there—don’t cry—let me wipe the ugly old dirt off you, and kiss the
face, and make it well.”

“Alice,” I protested,” don’t let those dirty boys clamber all over you
in that way.”

“Silence, sir,” said she, with mock dignity, “who gave me my lover, I
should like to ask?”

So we drove up to the boarding-house with the air of people who had
been devoting themselves to a couple of very disreputable children,
and I drove swiftly away again, lest the children should dispel the
illusion. We soon met Mike, running. The moment he recognized us, he
shouted:

“Ah, ye little dhivils,—beggin’ yer pardon, Masther Harry, an’ thankin’
the Howly Mither that their good-for-nothin’ little bones ain’t broke
to bits. Av they saw a hippypottymus hitched to Pharaoh’s chariot
they’d think ’emselves jist the byes to take the bossin’ av it, the
spalpeens!”

[Illustration: THE GOAT, THE CARRIAGE AND THE BOYS]

But no number of ordinary hippopotami and chariots could have
disturbed the heavenly tranquillity of my mind on this most glorious
of evenings. Even a subtle sense of the fitness of things seemed to
overshadow my nephews. Perhaps the touch of my enchantress did it;
perhaps it came only from the natural relapse from great excitement;
but no matter what the reason was, the fact remains that for the rest
of the evening two very dirty suits of clothes held two children who
gave one some idea of how the denizens of Paradise might seem and
act. They even ate their suppers without indulging in any of the
repulsive ways of which they had so large an assortment, and they did
not surreptitiously remove from the table any fragments of bread and
butter to leave on the piano, in the card-basket, and other places
inappropriate to the reception of such varieties of abandoned property.
They demanded a song after supper, but when I sang, “Drink to me only
with Thine Eyes,” and “Thou, Thou, Reign’st in this Bosom,” they stood
by with silent tongues and appreciative eyes. When they went to bed, I
accompanied them by special invitation, but they showed no disposition
to engage in the usual bedtime frolic and miniature pandemonium. Budge,
when in bed, closed his eyes, folded his hands and prayed:—

“Dear Lord, bless papa an’ mamma, an’ Toddie, an’ Uncle Harry, an’
everybody else; yes, an’ bless just lots that lovely, lovely lady that
comforted me after the goat was bad to me, an’ let her comfort me lots
of times, for Christ’s sake, Amen.”

And Toddie wriggled, twisted, breathed heavily, threw his head back,
and prayed:—

“Dee Lord, don’t let dat old goat fro me into de gutter on my head
aden, an’ let Ocken Hawwy an’ ze pitty lady be dere netst time I dets
hurted.”

Then the good-night salutations were exchanged, and I left the little
darlings and enjoyed communion with my own thoughts, which were as
peaceful and ecstatic as if the world contained no white goods houses,
no doubtful customers, no business competition, no politics, gold
rooms, stock-boards, doubtful banks, political scandals, personal
iniquity nor anything which would prevent a short vacation from lasting
through a long lifetime.

The next morning would have struck terror to the heart of any one but
a newly accepted lover. Rain was falling fast, and in that steady,
industrious manner which seemed to assert an intention to stick closely
to business for the whole day. The sky was covered by one impenetrable,
leaden cloud, water stood in pools in the streets which were soft
with dust a few hours before; the flowers all hung their heads, like
vagabonds who had been awake all night and were ashamed to face the
daylight. Even the chickens stood about in dejected attitudes, and
stray roosters from other poultry yards found refuge in Tom’s coop,
without first being subjected to a trial of strength and skill by Tom’s
gamecock.

But no man in my condition of mind could be easily depressed by bad
weather. I would rather have been able to drive about under a clear
sky, or lounge under the trees, or walk to the post-office in the
afternoon by the road which passed directly in front of Mrs. Clarkson’s
boarding-house; but man should not live for himself alone. In the room
next mine, were slumbering two wee people to whom I owed a great deal,
and who would mourn bitterly when they saw the condition of the skies
and ground—I would devote myself to the task of making _them_ so happy
that they would forget the absence of sunshine out of doors—I would sit
by their bedside and have a story ready for them the moment they awoke,
and put them in such a good humor that they could laugh, with me, at
cloud and rain.

I began at once to construct a story for their especial benefit; the
scene was to be a country residence on a rainy day, and the actors
two little boys who should become uproariously jolly in spite of the
weather. Like most people not used to story-making, my progress was
not very rapid; in fact, I had got no farther than the plot indicated
above when an angry snarl came from the children’s room.

“What’s the matter, Budge?” I shouted, dressing myself as rapidly as
possible.

“Ow—oo—ya—ng—um—boo—gaa!” was the somewhat complicated response.

“What did you say, Budge?”

“Didn’t say noffin’.”

“Oh—that’s what I thought.”

“_Didn’t_ thought.”

“Budge,—Budge,—be good.”

“Don’t _want_ to be good—_ya_—A—A!”

“Let’s have some fun, Budge—don’t you want to frolic?”

“No; I don’t think frolics is nice.”

“Don’t you want some candy, Budge?”

“No—you ain’t _got_ no candy, I bleeve.”

“Well, you sha’n’t have any, if you don’t stop being so cross.”

The only reply to this was a mighty and audible rustling of the bedding
in the boys’ room, followed by a sound strongly resembling that caused
by a slap; then came a prolonged wail, resembling that of an ungreased
wagon wheel.

“What’s the matter, Toddie?”

“Budge s’apped me—ah—h—h—h!”

“What made you slap your brother, Budge?”

“I _didn’t_.”

“You _did_!” screamed Toddie.

“I tell you I didn’t—you’re a naughty, bad boy to tell such lies,
Toddie.”

“What _did_ you do, Budge?” I asked.

“Why—why—I was—I was turnin’ over in bed, an’ my hand was out, an’ it
tumbled against to Toddie—that’s what.”

By this time I was dressed and in the boys’ room. Both my nephews were
sitting up in bed, Budge looking as sullen as an old jailbird, and
Toddie with tears streaming all over his face.

“Boys,” said I, “don’t be angry with each other—it isn’t right. What do
you suppose the Lord thinks, when He sees you so cross to each other?”

“He don’t think noffin’,” said Budge; “you don’t think He can look
through a black sky like that, do you?”

“He can look anywhere, Budge, and He feels very unhappy when He sees
little brothers angry with each other.”

“Well, I feel unhappy, too—I wish there wasn’t never no old rain, nor
noffin’.”

“Then what would plants and flowers do for a drink and where would
rivers come from for you to go sailing on?”

“An’ wawtoo to mate mud-pies,” added Toddie. “You’s a naughty boy,
Budgie”; and here Toddie’s tears began to flow afresh.

“I _ain’t_ a bad boy, an’ I don’t want no old rain nohow, an’ that’s
all about it. An’ I don’t want to get up, an’ Maggie must bring me up
my breakfast in bed.”

“Boo—hoo—oo,” wept Toddie, “wants my brepspup in bed too.”

“Boys,” said I, “now listen. You can’t have any breakfast at all,
unless you are up and dressed by the time the bell rings. The
rising-bell rang some time ago. Now dress like good boys, and you shall
have some breakfast, and then you’ll feel a great deal nicer, and then
Uncle Harry will play with you and tell you stories all day long.”

Budge crept reluctantly out of bed and caught up one of his stockings,
while Toddie again began to cry.

[Illustration: “AN’ WAWTOO TO MATE MUD-PIES”]

“Toddie!” I shouted, “stop that dreadful racket, and dress yourself!
What are you crying for?”

“Well, I feelsh bad.”

“Well, dress yourself, and you’ll feel better.”

“Wantsh _you_ to djesh me.”

“Bring me your clothes, then—quick!”

Again the tears flowed copiously. “Don’t _want_ to bring ’em,” said
Toddie.

“Then come here!” I shouted, dragging him across the room and snatching
up his tiny articles of apparel. I had dressed no small children since
I was rather a small boy myself, and Toddies clothing confused me
somewhat. I finally got something on him, when a contemptuous laugh
from Budge interrupted me.

“How you goin’ to put his shirt on under them things?” queried my
oldest nephew.

“Budge,” I retorted, “how are you going to get any breakfast if you
don’t put on something besides that stocking?”

The young man’s countenance fell, and just then the breakfast-bell
rang. Budge raised a blank face, hurried to the head of the stairs and
shouted:—

“Maggie?”

“What is it, Budge?”

“Was—was that the rising-bell or the breakfast-bell?”

”’Twas the breakfast-bell.”

There was dead silence for a moment, and then Budge shouted:—

“Well, we’ll call that the risin’-bell. You can ring another bell
for breakfast pretty soon, when I get dressed.” Then this volunteer
adjuster of household affairs came calmly back and commenced dressing
in good earnest, while I labored along with Toddie’s wardrobe.

“Where’s the button-hook, Budge?” said I.

“It’s—I—oh—um—I put it—say, Tod, what did you do with the button-hook
yesterday?”

“Didn’t hazh no button-hook,” asserted Toddie.

“Yes, you did; don’t you ’member how we was a playin’ draw teef, an’
the doctor’s dog had the toofache, and I was pullin’ his teef with the
button-hook an’ you was my little boy, an’ I gived the toof-puller to
you to hold for me? Where did you put it?”

“_I’d_ no,” replied Toddie, putting his hand in his pocket and bringing
out a sickly-looking toad.

“Feel again,” said I, throwing the toad out of the window, where it
was followed by an agonized shriek from Toddie. Again he felt, and his
search was rewarded by the tension-screw of Helen’s sewing-machine.
Then I attempted some research myself, and speedily found my fingers
adhering to something of a sticky consistency. I quickly withdrew my
hand, exclaiming:—

“What nasty stuff _have_ you got in your pocket, Toddie?”

”’Tain’t nashty ’tuff—it’s byead an’ lasses, an’ it’s nice, an’ Budge
an’ me hazh little tea parties in de kicken-coop, an’ we eats it, an’
its _dovely_.”

All this was lucid and disgusting, but utterly unproductive of
button-hooks, and meanwhile the breakfast was growing cold. I succeeded
in buttoning Toddie’s shoes with my fingers, splitting most of my nails
in the operation. I had been too busily engaged with Toddie to pay any
attention to Budge, who I now found about half dressed and trying to
catch flies on the window pane.

Snatching Toddie, I started for the dining-room, when Budge remarked
reprovingly:

“Uncle Harry, _you_ wasn’t dressed when the bell rang, and _you_
oughtn’t to have any breakfast.”

True enough—I was minus collar, cravat, and coat. Hurrying these on,
and starting again, I was once more arrested:—

“Uncle Harry, must I brush my teeth this morning?”

“No—hurry up—come down without doing anything more, if you like, but
_come_—it’ll be dinner-time before we get breakfast.”

Then that imp was moved, for the first time that morning to something
like good-nature, and he exclaimed with a giggle:—

“My! What big stomachs we’d have when we got done, wouldn’t we?”

At the breakfast table Toddie wept again, because I insisted on
beginning operations before Budge came. Then neither boy knew exactly
what he wanted. Then Budge managed to upset the contents of his plate
into his lap, and while I was helping him to clear away the débris,
Toddie improved the opportunity to pour his milk upon his fish and put
several spoonfuls of oatmeal porridge into my coffee-cup. I made an
early excuse to leave the table and turn the children over to Maggie.
I felt as tired as if I had done a hard day’s work, and was somewhat
appalled at realizing that the day had barely begun. I lit a cigar and
sat down to Helen’s piano. I am not a musician, but even the chords of
a hand-organ would have seemed sweet music to me on that morning. The
music-book nearest to my hand was a church hymn-book, and the first
air my eye struck was “Greenville.” I lived once in a town, where,
on a single day, a peddler disposed of thirty-eight accordions, each
with an instruction-book in which this same air, under its original
name, was the only air. For years after, a single bar of this air
awakened the most melancholy reflections in my mind, but now I forgave
all my musical tormentors as the familiar strains came comfortingly
from the piano-keys. But suddenly I heard an accompaniment—a sort of
reedy sound—and looking round, I saw Toddie again in tears. I stopped
abruptly and asked:—

“What’s the matter _now_, Toddie?”

“Don’t want dat old tune; wantsh dancin’ tune, so I can dance.”

[Illustration: “WANTSH DANCIN’ TUNE”]

I promptly played “Yankee Doodle,” and Toddie began to trot around the
room with the expression of a man who intended to do his whole duty.
Then Budge appeared, hugging a bound volume of “St. Nicholas.” The
moment that Toddie espied this he stopped dancing and devoted himself
anew to the task of weeping.

“Toddie!” I shouted, springing from the piano stool, “what do you mean
by crying at everything? I shall have to put you to bed again if you’re
going to be such a baby.”

“That’s the way he _always_ does, rainy days,” exclaimed Budge.

“Wantsh to see the whay-al what fwallowed Djonah,” sobbed Toddie.

“Can’t you demand something that’s within the range of possibility,
Toddie?” I mildly asked.

“The whale Toddie means is in this big red book; I’ll find it for you,”
said Budge, turning over the leaves.

Suddenly a rejoicing squeal from Toddie announced that leviathan had
been found, and I hastened to gaze. He was certainly a dreadful-looking
animal, but he had an enormous mouth, which Toddie caressed with his
pudgy little hand, and kissed with tenderness, murmuring as he did so:—

“_Dee_ old whay-al, I loves you. Is Djonah all goneded out of you
’tomach, whay-al? I finks ’twas weal mean in Djonah to get froed up
when you hadn’t noffin’ else to eat, _poor_ old whay-al.”

“Of _course_ Jonah’s gone,” said Budge, “he went to heaven long
ago—pretty soon after he went to Nineveh an’ done what the Lord told
him to do. Now swing us, Uncle Harry.”

The swing was on the piazza under cover from the rain; so I obeyed.
Both boys fought for the right to swing first, and when I decided in
favor of Budge, Toddie went off weeping, and declaring that he would
look at his dear whay-al anyhow. A moment later his wail changed to a
piercing shriek; and, running to his assistance, I saw him holding one
finger tenderly and trampling on a wasp.

“What’s the matter, Toddie?”

“Oo—oo—ee—ee—ee—_ee_—I putted my finger on a waps, and—oo—oo—the nasty
old waps—oo—bited me. An’ I don’t like wapses a bit, but I likes
whay-als—oo—ee—ee.”

A happy thought struck me. “Why don’t you boys make believe that big
packing-box in your play-room is a whale?” said I.

A compound shriek of delight followed the suggestion, and both boys
scrambled upstairs, leaving me a free man again. I looked remorsefully
at the tableful of books which I had brought to read, and had not
looked at for a week. Even now my remorse did not move me to open
them—I found myself, instead, attracted toward Tom’s library, and
conning the titles of novels and volumes of poems. My eye was caught
by “Initials,” a love story which I had always avoided because I had
heard impressionable young ladies rave about it; but now I picked it up
and dropped into an easy chair. Suddenly I heard Mike, the coachman,
shouting:—

“Go ’way from there, will ye? Ah, ye little spalpeen, it’s good for ye
that yer fahder don’t see ye perched up dhere. Go ’way from dhat, or
I’ll be tellin’ yer uncle.”

“Don’t care for nashty old uncle,” piped Toddie’s voice.

I laid down my book with a sigh, and went into the garden. Mike saw me
and shouted:

“Mister Burthon, will you look dhere? Did ye’s ever see the loike av
dhat bye?”

Looking up at the play-room window, a long, narrow sort of loop-hole
in a Gothic gable, I beheld my youngest nephew standing upright on the
sill.

“Toddie, go in—quick!” I shouted, hurrying under the window to catch
him in case he fell outward.

“I tan’t!” squealed Toddie.

“Mike, run upstairs and snatch him in! Toddie, go in, I tell you!”

“Tell you I _tan’t_ doe in,” repeated Toddie. “_Ze_ bid bots ish ze
whay-al, an’ I’ze Djonah, an’ ze whay-al’s froed me up, an’ I’ze dot to
’tay up here else ze whay-al ’ill fwallow me aden.”

“I won’t _let_ him swallow you. Get in now—hurry,” said I.

“Will you give him a penny not to fwallow me no more?” queried Toddie.

“Yes—a whole lot of pennies.”

“Aw wight. Whay-al, don’t you fwallow me no more, an’ zen my Ocken
Hawwy div you whole lots of pennies. You must be weal dood whay-al now,
an’ then I buys you some tandy wif your pennies, an’——”

Just then two great hands seized Toddie’s frock in front, and he
disappeared with a howl, while I, with the first feeling of faintness I
had ever experienced, went in search of hammer, nails, and some strips
of board, to nail on the outside of the window-frame. But boards could
not be found, so I went up to the play-room and began to knock a piece
or two off the box which had done duty as whale. A pitiful scream from
Toddie caused me to stop.

“You’re hurtin’ my dee old whay-al; you’s breakin’ his ’tomach all
open—you’s a baddy man—’_top_ hurtin’ my whay-al, ee—ee—ee!” cried my
nephew.

“I’m not hurting him, Toddie,” said I. “I’m making his mouth bigger,
so he can swallow you easier.”

A bright thought came into Toddie’s face and shone through his tears.
“Then he can fwallow Budgie too, an’ there’ll be two Djonahs—ha—ha—ha!
Make his mouf so big he can fwallow Mike, an’ zen mate it ’ittle aden,
so Mike tan’t det _out_; nashty old Mike!”

[Illustration: TWO GREAT HANDS SEIZED TODDIE]

I explained that Mike would not come upstairs again, so I was permitted
to depart after securing the window.

Again I settled myself with book and cigar; there was at least for me
the extra enjoyment that comes from the sense of pleasure earned by
honest toil. Pretty soon Budge entered the room. I affected not to
notice him, but he was not in the least abashed by my neglect.

“Uncle Harry,” said he, throwing himself in my lap, between my book and
me, “I don’t feel a bit nice.”

“What’s the matter, old fellow?” I asked. Until he spoke I could have
boxed his ears with great satisfaction to myself; but there is so much
genuine feeling in whatever Budge says that he commands respect.

“Oh, I’m tired of playin’ with Toddie, an’ I feel lonesome. Won’t you
tell me a story?”

“Then what’ll poor Toddie do, Budge?”

“Oh, he won’t mind—he’s got a dead mouse to be Jonah now, so I don’t
have no fun at all. Won’t you tell me a story?”

“Which one?”

“Tell me one that I never heard before at all.”

“Well, let’s see; I guess I’ll tell——”

“Ah—ah—ah—ah—ee—ee—ee!” sounded afar off, but fatefully. It came
nearer—it came down the stairway and into the library, accompanied by
Toddie, who, on spying me, dropped his inarticulate utterance, held up
both hands, and exclaimed:—

“Djonah bwoke he tay-al!”

[Illustration: “HE’S GOT A DEAD MOUSE TO BE JONAH NOW”]

True enough; in one hand Toddie held the body of a mouse, and in the
other that animal’s caudal appendage; there was also perceptible,
though not by the sense of sight, an objectionable odor in the room.

“Toddie,” said I, “go throw Jonah into the chicken coop, and I’ll give
you some candy.”

“Me too,” shouted Budge, ”’cos I found the mouse for him.”

I made both boys happy with candy, exacted a pledge not to go out in
the rain, and then, turning them loose on the piazza, returned to my
book. I had read, perhaps, half a dozen pages, when there arose and
swelled rapidly in volume a scream from Toddie. Madly determined to put
both boys into chairs, tie them, and clap adhesive plaster over their
mouths, I rushed out upon the piazza.

“Budgie tried to eat my candy,” complained Toddie.

“I didn’t,” said Budge.

“What _did_ you do?” I demanded.

“I didn’t bite it at all—I only wanted to see how it would feel between
my teeth—that’s all.”

I felt the corners of my mouth breaking down, and hurried back to the
library, where I spent a quiet quarter of an hour in pondering over
the demoralizing influence exerted upon principle by a sense of the
ludicrous. For some time afterward the boys got along without doing
anything worse than make a dreadful noise, which caused me to resolve
to find some method of deadening piazza floors if _I_ ever owned a
house in the country. In the occasional intervals of comparative quiet,
I caught snatches of very funny conversation. The boys had coined a
great many words whose meaning was evident enough, but I wondered
greatly why Tom and Helen had never taught them the proper substitutes.

Among others was the word “deader,” whose meaning I could not imagine.
Budge shouted:—

“O Tod! there comes a deader! See where all them things like rooster’s
tails are a-shakin’?—Well, there’s a deader under them.”

“Datsh funny,” remarked Toddie.

“An’ see all the peoples a-comin’ along,” continued Budge, “_they_ know
’bout the deader, an’ they’re goin’ to see it fixed. Here it comes.
Hello, deader!”

“Hay-oh, deader!” echoed Toddie.

What _could_ “deader” mean?

“Oh, here it is right in front of us,” cried Budge, “and _ain’t_ there
lots of people? An’ two horses to pull the deader—_some_ deaders has
only one.”

My curiosity was too much for my weariness; I went to the front window,
and, peering through, saw—a funeral procession! In a second I was on
the piazza, with my hands on the children’s collars; a second later two
small boys were on the floor of the hall, the front door was closed,
and two determined hands covered two threatening little mouths.

When the procession had fairly passed the house, I released the boys
and heard two prolonged howls for my pains. Then I asked Budge if he
wasn’t ashamed to talk that way when a funeral was passing.

“_’Twasn’t_ a funeral,” said he, ”’Twas only a deader, an’ deaders
can’t hear noffin’.”

“But the people in the carriages could,” said I.

“Well,” said he, “they were so glad that the other part of the deader
had gone to heaven that they didn’t care _what_ I said. Everbody’s glad
when the other part of deaders go to heaven. Papa told me he was glad
dear little Phillie was in heaven, an’ I _was_, but I do want to see
him again awful.”

“Wantsh to shee Phillie aden awfoo,” said Toddie, as I kissed Budge
and hurried off to the library, unfit just then to administer further
instruction or reproof. Of one thing I was very certain—I wished the
rain would cease falling, so the children could go out of doors, and
I could get a little rest, and freedom from responsibility. But the
skies showed no sign of being emptied, the boys were snarling on the
stairway, and I was losing my temper quite rapidly.

Suddenly I bethought me of one of the delights of my own childish
days—the making of scrap-books. One of Tom’s library drawers held
a great many _Lady’s Journals_. Of course Helen meant to have them
bound, but I could easily re-purchase the numbers for her; they would
cost two or three dollars, but peace was cheap at that price. On a
high shelf in the play-room I had seen some supplementary volumes of
“Mercantile Agency” reports, which would in time reach the rag-bag;
there was a bottle of mucilage in the library desk, and the children
owned an old pair of scissors. Within five minutes I had located two
happy children on the bath-room floor, taught them to cut out pictures
(which operation I quickly found they understood as well as I did)
and to paste them into the extemporized scrap-book. Then I left them,
recalling something from Newman Hall’s address on the “Dignity of
Labor.” Why hadn’t I thought before of showing my nephews some way of
occupying their minds and hands? Who could blame the helpless little
things for following every prompting of their unguided minds? Had I not
a hundred times been told, when sent to the woodpile or the weediest
part of the garden in my youthful days, that

    “Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do?”

Never again would I blame the children for being mischievous when their
minds were neglected.

I spent a peaceful, pleasant hour over my novel, when I felt that a
fresh cigar would be acceptable. Going upstairs in search of one, I
found that Budge had filled the bath-tub with water, and was sailing
boats, that is, hair-brushes.

Even this seemed too mild an offense to call for a rebuke, so I passed
on without disturbing him, and went to my own room. I heard Toddie’s
voice, and having heard from my sister that Toddie’s conversations with
himself were worth listening to, I paused outside the door. I heard
Toddie softly murmur:—

“Zere, pitty yady, ’tay _zere_. Now, ’ittle boy, I put you wif your
mudder, ’tause mudders like zere ’ittle boys wif zem. An’ you s’all
have ’ittle sister tudder side of you,—zere. Now, ’ittle boy’s an’
’ittle girl’s mudder, don’t you feel happy?—isn’t I awfoo good to give
you your ’ittle tsilderns? You ought to say, ‘Fank you, Toddie,—you’s a
nice, fweet ’ittle djentleman.’”

I peered cautiously—then I entered the room hastily. I didn’t
say anything for a moment, for it was impossible to do justice
impromptu, to the subject. Toddie had a progressive mind—if pictorial
ornamentation was good for old books, why should not similar
ornamentation be extended to objects more likely to be seen? Such may
not have been Toddie’s line of thought, but his recent operations
warranted such a supposition. He had cut out a number of pictures, and
pasted them upon the wall of my room—my sister’s darling room, with its
walls tinted exquisitely in pink. As a member of a hanging committee,
Toddie would hardly have satisfied taller people, but he had arranged
the pictures quite regularly, at about the height of his own eyes, had
favored no one artist more than another, and had hung indiscriminately
figure pieces, landscapes, and genre pictures. The temporary break of
wall-line occasioned by the door communicating with his own room he had
overcome by closing the door and carrying a line of pictures across
its lower panels. Occasionally a picture fell off the wall, but the
mucilage remained faithful, and glistened with its fervor of devotion.
And yet so untouched was I by this artistic display, that when I
found strength to shout, “Toddie,” it was in a tone which caused this
industrious amateur decorator to start violently, and drop his mucilage
bottle, open end first, upon the carpet.

“What will mamma say?” I asked.

Toddie gazed, first blankly, and then inquiringly, into my face;
finding no answer or sympathy there he burst into tears, and replied:—

“I dunno.”

The ringing of the lunch bell changed Toddie from a tearful cherub into
a very practical, business-like boy, and shouting, “Come on, Budge!” he
hurried downstairs, while I tormented myself with wonder as to how I
could best and most quickly undo the mischief Toddie had done.

I will concede to my nephews the credit of keeping reasonably quiet
during meals; their tongues, doubtless, longed to be active in both the
principal capacities of those useful members, but they had no doubt
as to how to choose between silence and hunger. The result was a
reasonably comfortable half-hour. Just as I began to cut a melon, Budge
broke the silence by exclaiming:—

“O Uncle Harry, we haven’t been out to see the goat to-day!”

“Budge,” I replied, “I’ll carry you out there under an umbrella after
lunch, and you may play with that goat all the afternoon, if you like.”

“Oh, won’t that be nice?” exclaimed Budge. “The poor goat! he’ll think
I don’t love him a bit, ’cause I haven’t been to see him to-day. Does
goats go to heaven when they die, Uncle Harry?”

“Guess not—they’d make trouble in the golden streets I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear! then Phillie can’t see my goat. I’m so awful sorry,” said
Budge.

“_I_ can see your goat, Budgie,” suggested Toddie.

“Huh!” said Budge, very contemptuously. “_You_ ain’t dead.”

“Well, Izhe _goin’_ to be dead some day, an’ zen your nashty old
goat sha’n’t see me a bit—see how he like _zat_.” And Toddie made a
ferocious attack on a slice of melon nearly as large as himself.

After lunch, Toddie was sent to his room to take his afternoon nap,
and Budge went to the barn on my shoulders. I gave Mike a dollar, with
instructions to keep Budge in sight, to keep him from teasing the
goat, and to prevent his being impaled or butted. Then I stretched
myself on a lounge and wondered whether only half a day of daylight
had elapsed since I and the most adorable woman in the world had been
so happy together. How much happier I would be when next I met her!
The very torments of this rainy day would make my joy seem all the
dearer and more intense. I dreamed happily for a few moments with my
eyes open, and then somehow they closed, without my knowledge. What
put into my mind the wreck scene from the play of “David Copperfield,”
I don’t know; but there it came, and in my dream I was sitting in the
balcony at Booth’s, and taking a proper interest in the scene, when
it occurred to me that the thunder had less of reverberation and more
woodenness than good stage thunder should have. The mental exertion
I underwent on this subject disturbed the course of my nap, but as
wakefulness returned, the sound of the poorly simulated thunder did
not cease; on the contrary, it was just as noisy, and more hopelessly
a counterfeit than ever. What could the sound be? I stepped through
the window to the piazza, and the sound was directly over my head. I
sprang down the terrace and out upon the lawn, looked up, and beheld
my youngest nephew strutting back and forth on the tin roof of the
piazza, holding over his head a ragged old parasol. I roared:—“Go in,
Toddie—this instant!”

The sound of my voice startled the young man so severely that he lost
his footing, fell, and began to roll toward the edge and to scream,
both operations being performed with great rapidity. I ran to catch him
as he fell, but the outer edge of the water trough was high enough to
arrest his progress, though it had no effect in reducing the volume of
his howls.

“Toddie,” I shouted, “lie perfectly still until uncle can get to you!
Do you hear?”

“Ess, but don’t want to lie ’till,” came in reply from the roof.

”’Tan’t shee noffin’ but sky an’ wain.”

[Illustration: HOLDING OVER HIS HEAD A RAGGED PARASOL]

“Lie still,” I reiterated, “or I’ll whip you dreadfully.” Then I dashed
upstairs, removed my shoes, climbed out and rescued Toddie, shook him
soundly, and then shook myself.

“I wash only djust pyayin mamma, an’ walkin’ in ze wain wif an
umbayalla,” Toddie explained.

I threw him upon his bed and departed. It was plain that neither logic,
threats, nor the presence of danger could keep this dreadful child
from doing whatever he chose; what other means of restraint could be
employed? Although not as religious a man as my good mother could
wish, I really wondered whether prayer, as a last resort, might not
be effective. For his good and my own peace, I would cheerfully have
read through the whole prayer-book. I could hardly have done it just
then, though, for Mike solicited an audience at the back door, and
reported that Budge had given the carriage sponge to the goat, put
handfuls of oats into the pump cylinder, pulled hairs out of the black
mare’s tail, and with a sharp nail drawn pictures on the enamel of the
carriage-body. Budge made no denial, but looked very much aggrieved,
and remarked that he couldn’t never be happy without somebody having
to go get bothered; and he wished there wasn’t nobody in the world
but organ-grinders and candy-store men. He followed me into the house,
flung himself into a chair, put on a look which I imagine Byron wore
before he was old enough to be malicious, and exclaimed:—

“I don’t see what little boys was made for, anyhow; if ev’rybody gets
cross with them, an’ don’t let ’em do what they want to. I’ll bet when
I get to heaven, the Lord won’t be as ugly to me as Mike is,—an’ some
other folks, too. I wish I could die and be buried right away,—me an’
the goat—an’ go to heaven, where we wouldn’t be scolded.”

Poor little fellow! First I laughed inwardly at his idea of heaven,
and then I wondered whether my own was very different from it, or
any more creditable. I had no time to spend, however, even in pious
reflection. Budge was quite wet, his shoes were soaking, and he already
had an attack of catarrh; so I took him to his room and redressed him,
wondering all the while how much similar duties my own father had had
to do for me had shortened his life, and how with such a son as I was,
he lived as long as he did. The idea that I was in some slight degree
atoning for my early sins, so filled my thoughts that I did not at
first notice the absence of Toddie. When it _did_ become evident to me
that my youngest nephew was not in the bed in which I had placed him,
I went in search of him. He was in none of the chambers, but hearing
gentle murmurs issue from a long, light closet, I looked in and saw
Toddie sitting on the floor, and eating the cheese out of a mouse-trap.
A squeak of my boots betrayed me, and Toddie, equal to the emergency,
sprang to his feet and exclaimed:—

“I didn’t hurt de ’ittle mousie one bittie; I just letted him out, and
he runded away.”

[Illustration: “I DIDN’T HURT DE ’ITTLE MOUSIE”]

And still it rained. Oh, for a single hour of sunlight, so that the
mud might be only damp dirt, and the children could play without
tormenting other people! But it was not to be; slowly, and by the aid
of songs, stories, an improvised menagerie, in which I personated
every animal, besides playing ostrich and armadillo, and with a great
many disagreements, the afternoon wore to its close, and my heart
slowly lightened. Only an hour or two more, and the children would be
in bed for the night, and then I would enjoy, in unutterable measure,
the peaceful hours which would be mine. Even now they were inclined to
behave themselves; they were tired and hungry, and stretched themselves
on the floor to await dinner. I embraced the opportunity to return
to my book, but I had hardly read a page, when a combined crash and
scream summoned me to the dining-room. On the floor lay Toddie, a great
many dishes, a roast leg of lamb, several ears of green corn, the
butter-dish and its contents, and several other misplaced edibles. One
thing was quite evident; the scalding contents of the gravy-dish had
been emptied on Toddie’s arm, and how severely the poor child might
be scalded I did not know. I hastily split open his sleeve from wrist
to shoulder, and found the skin very red; so, remembering my mother’s
favorite treatment for scalds and bums, I quickly spread the contents
of a dish of mashed potato on a clean handkerchief, and wound the whole
around Toddie’s arm as a poultice. Then I demanded an explanation.

“I was only djust reatchin’ for a pieshe of bwed,” sobbed Toddie, “an’
then the bad old tabo beginded to froe all its fings at me, an’ tumble
down bang.”

He undoubtedly told the truth as far as he knew it; but reaching over
tables is a bad habit in small boys, especially when their mothers
cling to old-fashioned heirlooms of tables, which have folding leaves;
so I banished Toddie to his room, supperless, to think of what he had
done. With Budge alone, I had a comfortable dinner off the salvage from
the wreck caused by Toddie, and then I went upstairs to see if the
offender had repented. It was hard to tell, by sight, whether he had
or not, for his back was to me, as he flattened his nose against the
window, but I could see that my poultice was gone.

“Where is what uncle put on your arm, Toddie?” I asked.

“I ate it up,” said the truthful youth.

“Did you eat the handkerchief, too?”

“No; I froed nashty old handkerchief out the window—don’t want dirty
old handkerchiefs in my nice ’ittle room.”

I was so glad that his burn had been slight that I forgave the
insult to my handkerchief, and called up Budge, so that I might at
once get both boys into bed, and emerge from the bondage in which I
had lived all day long. But the task was no easy one. Of course my
brother-in-law, Tom Lawrence, knows better than any other man the
necessities of his own children, but no children of mine shall ever
be taught so many methods of imposing upon parental good-nature. Their
program called for stories, songs, moral conversations, frolics, the
presentation of pennies, the dropping of the same, at long intervals,
into tin savings-banks, followed by a deafening shaking-up of both
banks; then a prayer must be offered, and no conventional one would be
tolerated; then the boys performed their own devotions, after which I
was allowed to depart with an interchange of “God bless yous.” As this
evening I left the room with their innocent benedictions sounding in my
ears, a sense of personal weakness, induced by the events of the day,
moved me to fervently respond “Amen!”

[Illustration: A TRIBUTE TO MOTHERS]

Mothers of American boys, accept from me a tribute of respect, which
no words can fitly express—of wonder greater than any of the great
things of the world ever inspired—of adoration as earnest and devout
as the Catholic pays to the Virgin. In a single day, I, a strong man,
with nothing else to occupy my mind, am reduced to physical and mental
worthlessness by the necessities of two boys not overmischievous or
bad. And you—Heaven only knows how—have unbroken weeks, months, years,
yes, lifetimes of just such experiences, and with them the burden of
household cares, of physical ills and depressions, of mental anxieties
that pierce thy hearts with as many sorrows as grieved the Holy
Mother of old. Compared with thy endurance, that of the young man,
the athlete, is as weakness; the secret of thy nerves, wonderful even
in their weakness, is as great as that of the power of the winds. To
display decision, thy opportunities are more frequent than those of the
greatest statesmen; thy heroism laughs into insignificance that of
fort and field; thou art trained in a school of diplomacy such as the
most experienced court cannot furnish. Do scoffers say thou canst not
hold the reins of government? Easier is it to rule a band of savages
than to be the successful autocrat of thy little kingdom. Compared with
the ways of men, even thy failures are full of glory. Be thy faults
what they may, thy one great, mysterious, unapproachable success places
thee, in desert, far above warrior, ruler or priest.

The foregoing soliloquy passed through my mind as I lay upon the bed
where I had thrown myself after leaving the children’s room. Whatever
else attempted to affect me mentally, found my mind a blank until the
next morning, when I awoke to realize that I had dropped asleep just
where I fell, and that I had spent nearly twelve hours lying across a
bed in an uncomfortable position, and without removing my daily attire.
My next impression was that quite a bulky letter had been pushed under
my chamber-door. Could it be that my darling—I hastily seized the
envelope and found it addressed in my sister’s writing, and promising a
more voluminous letter than that lady had ever before honored me with.
I opened it, dropping an enclosure which, doubtless, was a list of
necessities which I would please pack, etc. and read as follows:—

  JULY 1, 1875.

 “MY DEAR OLD BROTHER:—_Wouldn’t_ I like to give you the warmest of
 sisterly hugs? I can’t believe it, and yet I am in ecstasies over it.
 To think that _you_ should have got that perfection of a girl, who
 has declined so many great catches—_you_, my sober, business-like,
 unromantic big brother—oh, it’s too wonderful! But now I think of it,
 you are just the people for each other. I’d like to say that it’s just
 what I’d always longed for, and I invited you to Hillcrest to bring
 it about; but the trouble with such a story would be that it wouldn’t
 have a word of truth in it. You always _did_ have a faculty for doing
 just what you pleased, and what nobody ever expected you to do, but
 now you’ve exceeded yourself.

 “And to think that my little darlings played an important part in
 bringing it all about! I shall take the credit of _that_, for if it
 hadn’t been for me who would have helped you, sir? I shall expect you
 to remember both of them handsomely at Christmas.

 “I don’t believe I am guilty of breach of confidence in sending the
 enclosed, which I have just received from my sister-in-law that is to
 be. It will tell you some causes of your success of which you, with
 a man’s conceit, haven’t imagined for a minute, and it will tell you,
 too, of a maiden’s first and natural fear under such circumstances—a
 fear which I know you, with your honest, generous heart, will hasten
 to dispel. As you’re a man, you’re quite likely to be too stupid to
 read what’s written between the lines; so I’d better tell you that
 Alice’s fear is that in letting herself go so easily, she may have
 seemed to lack proper reserve and self-respect. You don’t need to be
 told that no woman alive has more of these very qualities.

 “Bless your dear old heart, Harry,—you deserve to be shaken to death
 if you’re not the happiest man alive. I _must_ hurry home and see you
 both with my own eyes, and learn to believe that all this wonderful,
 glorious thing has come to pass. Give Alice a sister’s kiss for me
 (if you know how to give more than one kind), and give my cherubs a
 hundred each from the mother that wants to see them so much.

  “With love and congratulations,

  “HELEN.”

The other letter, which I opened with considerable reverence and more
delight, ran as follows:

  “HILLCREST, June 29, 1875.

 “DEAR FRIEND HELEN:—Something has happened and I am very happy, but I
 am more than a little troubled over it, too, and, as you are one of
 the persons nearly concerned, I am going to confess to you as soon as
 possible. Harry—your brother, I mean—will be sure to tell you very
 soon, if he hasn’t done so already, and I want to make all possible
 haste to solemnly assure you that I hadn’t the slightest idea of such
 a thing coming to pass, and I didn’t do the slightest thing to bring
 it about.

 “I always thought your brother was a splendid fellow, and have never
 been afraid to express my mind about him, when there was no one but
 girls to listen. But out here, I have somehow learned to admire him
 more than ever. I cheerfully acquit _him_ of intentionally doing
 anything to create a favorable impression; if his several appearances
 before me _have_ been studied, he is certainly the most original being
 I ever heard of. Your children are angels—you’ve told me so yourself,
 and I’ve my own very distinct impression on the subject, but they
 _don’t_ study to save their uncle’s appearance. The figures that
 unfortunate man has cut several times—well, I won’t try to describe
 them on paper, for fear he might some day see a scrap of it and take
 offense. But he always seems to be patient with them, and devoted
 to them, and I haven’t been able to keep from seeing that a man who
 could be so lovable with thoughtless and unreasonable children must be
 perfectly adorable to the woman he loved, if she were a woman at all.
 Still, I hadn’t the faintest idea that I would be the fortunate woman.
 At last _the_ day came, but I was in blissful ignorance of what was to
 happen. Your little Charley hurt himself, and insisted upon Har—your
 brother singing an odd song to him; and just when the young gentleman
 was doing the elegant to a dozen of us ladies at once, too! If you
 _could_ have seen his face!—it was too funny, until he got over his
 annoyance, and began to feel properly sorry for the little fellow—then
 he seemed all at once to be all tenderness and heart, and I _did_ wish
 for a moment that conventionalities didn’t exist, and I might tell
 him that he was a model. Then your youngest playfully spilt a plate
 of soup on my dress (don’t be worried—’twas only a common muslin, and
 ’twill wash). Of course I had to change it and, as I retired, the
 happy thought struck me that I’d make so elaborate a toilet that I
 wouldn’t finish in time to join the other ladies for the usual evening
 walk; consequence, I would have a chance to monopolize a gentleman for
 half an hour or more—a chance which, no thanks to the gentlemen who
 don’t come to Hillcrest, no lady here has had this season. Every time
 I peered through the blinds to see if the other girls had started, I
 could see _him_ looking so distressed, and brooding over those two
 children as if he were their mother, and he seemed _so_ good. He
 seemed pleased to see _me_ when I appeared, and coming from such a
 man the implied compliment was fully appreciated; everything he said
 to me seemed a little more worth hearing than if it had come from any
 man not so good. Then, suddenly, your eldest insisted on retailing the
 result of a conversation he had had with his uncle, and the upshot was
 that Harry declared himself; he wasn’t romantic a bit, but he was real
 straightforward and manly, while I was so completely taken back that
 I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Then the impudent fellow kissed
 me, and I lost my tongue worse than ever. If I had known anything of
 his feelings beforehand, I should have been prepared to behave more
 properly; but—O Helen, I’m so glad I _didn’t_ know! I should be the
 happiest being that ever lived, if I wasn’t afraid that you or your
 husband might think that I had given myself away too hastily. As to
 other people, we will see that they don’t know a word about it for
 months to come.

 “_Do_ write that I was not to blame, and make believe accept me as a
 sister, because I _can’t_ offer to give Harry up to any one else you
 may have picked out for him.

  “Your sincere friend,

  “ALICE MAYTON.”

[Illustration: I SHOUTED “HURRAH”.]

Was there ever so delightful a reveille? All the boyishness in me
seemed suddenly to come to the surface, and instead of saying and
doing the decorous thing which novelists’ heroes do under similar
circumstances. I shouted “Hurrah!” and danced into the children’s room
so violently that Budge sat up in bed and regarded me with reproving
eyes, while Toddie burst into a happy laugh, and volunteered as a
partner in the dance. Then I realized that the rain was over, and the
sun was shining—I could take Alice out for another drive, and until
then the children could take care of themselves. I remembered suddenly,
and with a sharp pang, that my vacation was nearly at an end, and I
found myself consuming with impatience to know how much longer Alice
would remain at Hillcrest. It would be cruel to wish her in the city
before the end of August, yet I——

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “my papa says ’tisn’t nice for folks
to sit down an’ go to thinkin’ before they’ve brushed their hair
mornin’s—that’s what he tells _me_.”

“I beg your pardon, Budge,” said I, springing up in some confusion; “I
was thinking over a matter of a great deal of importance.”

“What was it—my goat?”

“No—of course not. Don’t be silly, Budge.”

“Well, I think about him a good deal, an’ I don’t think it’s silly
a bit. I hope he’ll go to heaven when he dies. Do angels have
goat-carriages, Uncle Harry?”

“No, old fellow—they can go about without carriages.”

“When I goesh to hebben,” said Toddie, rising in bed, “Izhe goin’
to have lots of goat cawidjes an’ Izhe goin’ to tate all ze andjels
a-widen.”

With many other bits of prophesy and celestial description I was
regaled as I completed my toilet, and I hurried out of doors for an
opportunity to think without disturbance. Strolling past the hen-yard,
I saw a meditative turtle, and, picking him up and shouting to my
nephews, I held the reptile up for their inspection. Their window
blinds flew open and a unanimous though not exactly harmonious “Oh!”
greeted my prize.”

“Where did you get it, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.

“Down by the hen-coop.”

Budge’s eyes opened wide; he seemed to devote a moment to profound
thought, and then he exclaimed:—

“Why, I don’t see how the hens _could_ lay such a big thing—just put
him in your hat till I come down, will you?”

I dropped the turtle into Budge’s wheelbarrow, and made a tour of the
flower-borders. The flowers, always full of suggestion to me, seemed
suddenly to have new charms and powers; they actually impelled me to
try to make rhymes,—me, a steady white-goods salesman! The impulse was
too strong to be resisted, though I must admit that the results were
pitifully meager:—

    “As radiant as that matchless rose
      Which poet-artists fancy;
    As fair as whitest lily-blows,
      As modest as the pansy;
    As pure as dew which hides within
      Aurora’s sun-kissed chalice;
    As tender as the primrose sweet—
      All this, and more, is Alice.”

In inflicting this fragment upon the reader I have not the faintest
idea that he can discover any merit in it; I quote it only that a
subsequent experience of mine may be more intelligible. When I had
composed these wretched lines I became conscious that I had neither
pencil nor paper wherewith to preserve them. Should I lose them—my
first self-constructed poem? Never! This was not the first time in
which I had found it necessary to preserve words by memory alone. So I
repeated my ridiculous lines over and over again, until the eloquent
feeling of which they were the graceless expression inspired me to
accompany my recital with gestures. Six—eight—ten—a dozen—twenty times
I repeated these lines, each time with additional emotion and gesture,
when a thin voice, very near me, remarked:—

“Ocken Hawwy, you does djust as if you was swimmin’.”

Turning, I beheld my nephew, Toddie—how long he had been behind me I
had no idea. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and then remarked:—

“Ocken Hawwy, your faysh is wed, djust like a wosy-posy.”

“Let’s go right in to breakfast, Toddie,” said I aloud, as I grumbled
to myself about the faculty of observation which Tom’s children seemed
to have.

Immediately after breakfast I despatched Mike with a note to Alice,
informing her that I would be glad to drive her to the Falls in the
afternoon, calling for her at two. Then I placed myself unreservedly
at the disposal of the boys for the morning, it being distinctly
understood that they must not expect to see me between lunch and
dinner. I was first instructed to harness the goat, which order I
obeyed, and I afterward watched that grave animal as he drew my nephews
up and down the carriage-road, his countenance as demure as if he
had no idea of suddenly departing when my back should be turned. The
wheels of the goat-carriage uttered the most heart-rending noises I had
ever heard from ungreased axle; so I persuaded the boys to dismount,
and submit to the temporary unharnessing of the goat, while I should
lubricate the axles. Half an hour of dirty work sufficed, with such
assistance as I gained from juvenile advice, to accomplish the task
properly; then I put the horned steed into the shafts, Budge cracked
the whip, the carriage moved off without noise, and Toddie began to
weep bitterly.

“Cawwidge is all bwoke,” said he; “_wheelsh don’t sing a bittie no
more_,” while Budge remarked:—

“I think the carriage sounds kind o’ lonesome now, don’t you, Uncle
Harry?”

“Uncle Harry,” asked Budge, a little later in the morning, “do you know
what makes the thunder?”

“Yes, Budge—when two clouds go bump into each other they make a good
deal of noise, and they call it thunder.”

“That ain’t it at all,” said Budge “When it thundered yesterday it was
because the Lord was riding along through the sky an’ the wheels of his
carriage made an awful noise, an’ that was the thunder.”

“Don’t like nashty old funder,” remarked Toddie. “It goesh into our
cellar an’ makesh all ze milk sour—Maggie said so. An’ so I can’t hazh
no nice white tea for my brepspup.”

“I should think you’d like the Lord to go a-ridin’, Toddie, with all
the angels running after Him,” said Budge, “even if the thunder _does_
make the milk sour. And it’s so splendid to _see_ the thunder bang.”

“How do you see it, Budge?” I asked.

“Why, don’t you know when the thunder bangs, and then you see an awful
bright place in the sky?—that’s where the Lord’s carriage gives an
awful pound, an’ makes little cracks through the floor of heaven,
an’ we see right in. But what’s the reason we can’t ever see anybody
through the cracks, Uncle Harry?”

“I don’t know, old fellow—I guess it’s because it isn’t cracks in
heaven that look so bright,—it’s a kind of fire that the Lord makes up
in the clouds. You’ll know all about it when you get bigger.”

“Well, I’ll feel awful sorry if ’tain’t anything but fire. Do you know
that funny song my papa sings ’bout:—

    “‘Roarin’ thunders, lightenin’s blazes,
    Shout the great Creator’s praises?’

I don’t know ’zactly what it means, but I think it’s kind o’ splendid,
don’t you?”

[Illustration: “TWO CLOUDS GO BUMP INTO EACH OTHER”]

I _did_ know the old song; I had heard it in a Western camp-meeting,
when scarcely older than Budge, and it left upon my mind just the
effect it seemed to have done on his. I blessed his sympathetic young
heart, and snatched him into my arms. Instantly, he became all boy
again.

“Uncle Harry,” he shouted, “you crawl on your hands and knees and play
you was a horse, and I’ll ride on your back.”

“No, thank you, Budge, not on the dirt.”

“Then let’s play menagerie, an’ you be all the animals.”

To this proposition I assented, and after hiding ourselves in one of
the retired angles of the house, so that no one could know who was
guilty of disturbing the peace by such dire noises, the performance
commenced. I was by turns a bear, a lion, a zebra, an elephant, dogs
of various kinds, and a cat. As I personated the latter named animal,
Toddie echoed my voice.

“Miauw! Miauw!” said he, “dat’s what cats saysh when they goesh down
wells.”

“Faith, an’ it’s him that knows,” remarked Mike, who had invited
himself to a free seat in the menagerie, and assisted in the applause
which had greeted each personation. “Would ye belave it, Misther Harry,
dhat young dhivil got out the front door one mornin’ afore sunroise,
all in his little noight-gown, an’ wint over to dhe docthor’s an’
picked up a kitten lyin’ on dhe kitchen door-mat, an’ throwed it down
dhe well. Dhe docthor wasn’t home, but dhe missis saw him, an’ her
heart was dhat tindher dhat she hurried out and throwed boords down for
dhe poor little baste to stand on, an’ let down a hoe on a sthring,
an’ whin she got dhe poor little dhing out, she was dhat faint dhat
she dhrapped on dhe grass. An’ it cost Mr. Lawrence nigh onto thirty
dollars to have the docthor’s well claned out.”

“Yes,” said Toddie, who had listened carefully to Mike’s recital,
“An’ kitty-kitty said, ‘Miauw! Miauw!’ when she goed down ze well.
An’ Mish Doctor sed, ‘Bad boy—go home—don’t never turn to my housh
no more,’—dat’s what she said to me. Now be some more animals, Ocken
Hawwy. Can’t you be a whay-al?”

“Whales don’t make a noise, Toddie; they only splash about in the
water.”

“Zen grop in ze cistern an’ ’plash, can’t you?”

Lunch-time, and after it the time for Toddie to take his nap. Poor
Budge was bereft of a playmate, for the doctor’s little girl was sick;
so he quietly followed me about with a wistful face, that almost
persuaded me to take him with me on my drive—_our_ drive. Had he
grumbled, I would have felt less uncomfortable; but there’s nothing so
touching and overpowering to either gods or men, as the spectacle of
mute resignation. At last, to my great relief, he opened his mouth.

“Uncle Harry,” said he, “do you s’pose folks ever get lonesome in
heaven?”

“I guess not, Budge.”

“Do little boy angels’ papas an’ mammas go off visitin’, an’ stay ever
so long?”

“I don’t exactly know, Budge, but if they do, the little boy angels
have plenty of other little boy angels to play with, so they can’t very
well be lonesome.”

“Well, I don’t b’leeve they could make _me_ happy, when I wanted to see
my papa an’ mamma. When I haven’t got anybody to play with, then I want
papa an’ mamma _so_ bad—so bad as if I would die if I didn’t see ’em
right away.”

[Illustration: “CAN’T YOU BE A WHAY-AL?”]

I was shaving, and only half-done, but I hastily wiped off my face,
dropped into a rocking-chair, took the forlorn little boy into my arms,
and kissed him, caressed him, sympathized with him, and devoted myself
entirely to the task and pleasure of comforting him. His sober little
face gradually assumed a happier appearance; his lips parted in such
lines as no old master ever put upon angel lips; his eyes, from being
dim and hopeless, grew warm and lustrous and melting. At last he said:—

“Uncle Harry, I’m _ever_ so happy now. An’ can’t Mike go around with me
and the goat, all the time you’re away riding? An bring us home some
candy, an’ marbles—oh, yes—an’ a new dog.”

Anxious as I was to hurry off to meet my engagement, I was rather
disgusted as I unseated Budge and returned to my razor. So long as
he was lonesome and I was his only hope, words couldn’t express his
devotion, but the moment he had, through my efforts, regained his
spirits, his only use for me was to ask further favors. Yet in trying
the poor boy, judicially, the evidence was more dangerous to humanity
in general than to Budge; it threw a great deal of light upon my own
peculiar theological puzzles, and almost convinced me that my duty was
to preach a new gospel.

As I drove up to the steps of Mrs. Clarkson’s boarding-house, it seemed
to me a month had elapsed since last I was there, and this apparent
lapse of time was all that prevented my ascribing to miraculous
agencies the wonderful and delightful change that Alice’s countenance
had undergone in two short days. Composure, quickness of perception,
the ability to guard one’s self, are indications of character which are
particularly in place in the countenance of a young lady in society,
but when, without losing these, the face takes on the radiance born
of love and trust, the effect is indescribably charming—especially to
the eyes of the man who causes the change. Longer, more out-of-the-way
roads between Hillcrest and the Falls, I venture to say, were never
known than I drove over that afternoon, and my happy companion, who in
other days I had imagined might one day, by her decision, alertness
and force exceed the exploits of Lady Baker, or Miss Tinne, never once
asked if I was sure we were on the right road. Only a single cloud came
over her brow, and of this I soon learned the cause.

“Harry,” said she, pressing closer to my side, and taking an appealing
tone, “do you love me well enough to endure something unpleasant for my
sake?”

My answer was not verbally expressed, but its purport seemed to be
understood and accepted, for Alice continued:—

“I wouldn’t undo a bit of what’s happened—I’m the happiest, proudest
woman in the world. But we _have_ been very hasty, for people who have
been mere acquaintances. And mother is dreadfully opposed to such
affairs—she is of the old style, you know.”

“It was all my fault,” said I. “I’ll apologize promptly and handsomely.
The time and agony which I didn’t consume in laying siege to your
heart, I’ll devote to the task of gaining your mother’s good graces.”

The look I received in reply to this remark would have richly repaid
me, had my task been to conciliate as many mothers-in-law as Brigham
Young possesses. But her smile faded as she said:—

“You don’t know what a task you have before you. Mother has a very
tender heart, but it’s thoroughly fenced in by proprieties. In her day
and set, courtship was a very slow, stately affair, and mother believes
it the proper way now; so do I, but I admit possible exceptions, and
mother does not. I am afraid she won’t be patient if she knows the
whole truth, yet I can’t bear to keep it from her. I’m her only child,
you know.”

“_Don’t_ keep it from her,” said I, “unless for some reason of your
own. Let me tell the whole story, take all the responsibility, and
accept the penalties, if there are any. Your mother is right in
principle, if there _is_ a certain delightful exception that we know
of.”

“My only fear is for _you_,” said my darling, nestling closer to me.
“She comes of a family that can display most glorious indignation when
there’s a good excuse for it, and I can’t bear to think of _you_ being
the cause of such an outbreak.”

“I’ve faced the ugliest of guns in honor of one form of love, little
girl,” I replied, “and I could do even more for the sentiment for which
_you’re_ to blame. And for my own sake, I’d rather endure anything
than a sense of having deceived any one, especially the mother of such
a daughter. Besides, you’re her dearest treasure, and she has a right
to know of even the least thing that in any way concerns you.”

“And you’re a noble fellow, and——” Whatever other sentiment my
companion failed to put into words was impulsively and eloquently
communicated by her dear eyes.

But oh, what a cowardly heart your dear cheek rested upon an instant
later, fair Alice! Not for the first time in my life did I shrink and
tremble at the realization of what duty imperatively required—not for
the first time did I go through a harder battle than was ever fought
with sword and cannon, and a battle with greater possibilities of
danger than the field ever offered. I won it, as a man _must_ do in
such fights, if he deserves to live; but I could not help feeling
considerably sobered on our homeward drive.

We neared the house, and I had an insane fancy that instead of driving
two horses I was astride of one, with spurs at my heels and a saber at
my side.

“Let me talk to her _now_, Alice, won’t you? Delays are only cowardly.”

A slight trembling at my side—an instant of silence that seemed an
hour, yet within which I could count but six footfalls, and Alice
replied:—

“Yes; if the parlor happens to be empty, I’ll ask her if she won’t go
in and see you a moment.” Then there came a look full of tenderness,
wonder, painful solicitude, and then two dear eyes filled with tears.

“We’re nearly there, darling,” said I, with a reassuring embrace.

“Yes, and you sha’n’t be the only hero,” said she, straightening
herself proudly, and looking a fit model for a Zenobia.

As we passed from behind a clump of evergreens which hid the house from
our view, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Gracious!” Upon the piazza stood
Mrs. Mayton; at her side stood my two nephews, as dirty in face, in
clothing, as I had ever seen them. I don’t know but that for a moment
I freely forgave them, for their presence might grant me the respite
which a sense of duty would not allow me to take.

“Wezhe comed up to wide home wif you,” exclaimed Toddie, as Mrs. Mayton
greeted me with an odd mixture of courtesy, curiosity and humor. Alice
led the way into the parlor, whispered to her mother, and commenced to
make a rapid exit, when Mrs. Mayton called her back, and motioned her
to a chair. Alice and I exchanged sidelong glances.

“Alice says you wish to speak with me, Mr. Burton,” said she. “I wonder
whether the subject is one upon which I have this afternoon received a
minute verbal account from the elder Master Lawrence.”

Alice looked blank;—I am sure that _I_ did. But safety could only lie
in action, so I stammered out:——

“If you refer to an apparently unwarrantable intrusion upon your family
circle, Mrs.——”

“I do, sir,” replied the old lady. “Between the statements made by
that child, and the hitherto unaccountable change in my daughter’s
looks during two or three days, I think I have got at the truth of
the matter. If the offender was any one else, I should be inclined to
be severe; but we mothers of only daughters are apt to have a pretty
distinct idea of the merits of young men, and——”

The old lady dropped her head; I sprang to my feet, seized her hand,
and reverently kissed it; then Mrs. Mayton, whose only son had died
fifteen years before, raised her head and adopted me in the manner
peculiar to mothers, while Alice burst into tears, and kissed us both.

A few moments later, as three happy people were occupying conventional
attitudes, and trying to compose faces which should bear the inspection
of whoever might happen into the parlor, Mrs. Mayton observed:—

“My children, between us this matter is understood, but I must caution
you against acting in such a way as to make the engagement public at
once.”

“Trust me for that,” hastily exclaimed Alice.

“And me,” said I.

“I have no doubt of the intention and discretion of either of you,”
resumed Mrs. Mayton, “but you cannot possibly be too cautious.” Here a
loud laugh from the shrubbery under the windows drowned Mrs. Mayton’s
voice for a moment, but she continued: “Servants, children,”—here she
smiled, and I dropped my head—“persons you may chance to meet——”

Again the laugh broke forth under the window.

“What _can_ those girls be laughing at?” exclaimed Alice, moving toward
the window, followed by her mother and me.

Seated in a semicircle on the grass were most of the ladies boarding at
Mrs. Clarkson’s, and in front of them stood Toddie, in that high state
of excitement to which sympathetic applause always raises him.

“Say it again,” said one of the ladies.

Toddie put on an expression of profound wisdom, made violent
gestures with both hands, and repeated the following, with frequent
gesticulations:—

    “Azh wadiant azh ze matchless woze
      Zat poeck-artuss fanshy;
    Azh fair azh whituss lily-blowzh;
      Azh moduss azh a panzhy;
    Azh pure azh dew zat hides wiffin
      Awwahwah’s sun-tissed tsallish;
    Azh tender azh ze pwimwose tweet,
      All zish, an’ moah, izh Alish.”

[Illustration: “AZH WADIANT AZH ZE MATCHLESS WOZE”]

I gasped for breath.

“Who taught you all that, Toddie?” asked one of the ladies.

“Nobody didn’t taught me—I lyned[9] it.”

  [9] Learned.

“When did you learn it?”

“Lyned it zish mornin’. Ocken Hawwy said it over, an’ over, an’ over,
djust yots of timezh, out in ze garden.”

The ladies all exchanged glances—my lady readers will understand just
how, and I assure gentlemen that I did not find their glances at all
hard to read. Alice looked at me inquiringly, and she now tells me that
I blushed sheepishly and guiltily. Poor Mrs. Mayton staggered to a
chair, and exclaimed:

“Too late! too late!”

Considering their recent achievements, Toddie and Budge were a very
modest couple as I drove them home that evening. Budge even made some
attempt at apologizing for their appearance, saying that they couldn’t
find Maggie, and _couldn’t_ wait any longer; but I assured him that
no apology was necessary. I was in such excellent spirits that my
feeling became contagious; and we sang songs, told stories, and played
ridiculous games most of the evening, paying but little attention to
the dinner that was set for us.

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, suddenly, “do you know we haven’t ever sung,—

  ‘Drown old Pharaoh’s Army, Hallelujah,’

since you’ve been here? Let’s do it now.”

“All right, old fellow.” I knew the song—such as there was of it—and
its chorus, as _every_ one does who ever heard the Jubilee Singers
render it; but I scarcely understood the meaning of the preparations
which Budge made. He drew a large rocking-chair into the middle of the
room, and exclaimed:—

“There, Uncle Harry—you sit down. Come along, Tod—you sit on that knee,
and I’ll sit on this. Lift up both hands, Tod, like I do. Now we’re all
ready, Uncle Harry.”

I sang the first line:—

  “When Israel was in bondage, they cried unto the Lord,”

without any assistance, but the boys came in powerfully on the refrain,
beating time simultaneously with their four fists upon my chest. I
cannot think it strange that I suddenly ceased singing, but the boys
viewed my action from a different standpoint.

“What makes you stop, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.

“Because you hurt me badly, my boy; you mustn’t do that again.”

“Why, I guess you ain’t very strong: that’s the way we do to papa, an’
it don’t hurt _him_.”

Poor Tom! No wonder he grows flat-chested.

“Guesh you’s a ky-baby,” suggested Toddie.

This imputation I bore with meekness, but ventured to remark that it
was bedtime. After allowing a few moments for the usual expressions of
dissent, I staggered upstairs with Toddie in my arms, and Budge on my
back, both boys roaring the refrain of the negro hymn:—

  “I’m a-rolling through an unfriendly World!”

The offer of a stick of candy to whichever boy was first undressed,
caused some lively disrobing, after which each boy received the prize.
Budge bit a large piece, wedged it between his cheek and his teeth,
closed his eyes, folded his hands on his breast, and prayed:—

“Dear Lord, bless papa an’ mamma, an’ Toddie an’ me, an’ that turtle
Uncle Harry found; and bless that lovely lady Uncle Harry goes ridin’
with, an’ make ’em take me too, an’ bless that nice old lady with white
hair, that cried, an’ said I was a smart boy. Amen.”

Toddie sighed as he drew his stick of candy from his lips; then he
shut his eyes and remarked:—“Dee Lord, blesh Toddie, an’ make him good
boy, an’ blesh zem ladies zat told me to say it aden”; the particular
“it” referred to being well understood by at least three adults of my
acquaintance.

The course of Budge’s interview with Mrs. Mayton was afterward related
by that lady, as follows:—

She was sitting in her own room (which was on the parlor floor, and in
the rear of the house), and was leisurely reading “Fated to be Free,”
when she accidentally dropped her glasses. Stooping to pick them up,
she became aware that she was not alone. A small, very dirty, but
good-featured boy stood before her, his hands behind his back, and an
inquiring look in his eyes.

“Run away, little boy,” said she. “Don’t you know it isn’t polite to
enter rooms without knocking?”

“I’m lookin’ for my uncle,” said Budge, in most melodious accents, “an’
the other ladies said you would know when he would come back.”

“I’m afraid they were making fun of you—or me,” said the old lady, a
little severely. “I don’t know anything about little boys’ uncles. Now,
run away, and don’t disturb me any more.”

“Well,” continued Budge, “they said your little girl went with him, and
you’d know when _she_ would come back.”

“I haven’t any little girl,” said the old lady, her indignation at a
supposed joke threatening to overcome her dignity. “Now go away.”

“She isn’t a _very_ little girl,” said Budge, honestly anxious to
conciliate; “that is, she’s bigger’n _I_ am, but they said you was
her mother, an’ so she’s your little girl, isn’t she? _I_ think she’s
lovely, too.”

[Illustration: MRS. MAYTON STOOPED TO PICK UP HER GLASSES]

“Do you mean Miss Mayton?” asked the lady, thinking she had a possible
clue to the cause of Budge’s anxiety.

“Oh, yes—that’s her name—I couldn’t think of it,” eagerly replied
Budge. “An ain’t she AWFUL nice—I _know_ she is!”

“Your judgment is quite correct, considering your age,” said Mrs.
Mayton, exhibiting more interest in Budge than she had heretofore
done. “But what makes _you_ think she is nice? You are rather younger
than her male admirers usually are.”

“Why, my Uncle Harry told me so,” replied Budge, “and _he_ knows
_everything_.”

Mrs. Mayton grew vigilant at once, and dropped her book.

“Who _is_ your Uncle Harry, little boy?”

“He’s Uncle Harry; don’t you know him? He can make nicer whistles than
my papa can. An’ he found a turtle——”

“Who is your papa?” interrupted the old lady.

“Why, he’s papa—I thought everybody knew who _he_ was.”

“What is your name?” asked Mrs. Mayton.

“John Burton Lawrence,” promptly answered Budge.

Mrs. Mayton wrinkled her brows for a moment, and finally asked:—

“Is Mr. Burton the uncle you are looking for?”

“I don’t know any Mr. Burton,” said Budge, a little dazed; “uncle is
mamma’s brother, an’ he’s been livin’ at our house ever since mamma and
papa went off visitin’, an’ he goes ridin’ in our carriage, an’——”

“Humph!” remarked the old lady with so much emphasis that Budge ceased
talking. A moment later she said:—

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you, little boy; go on.”

“An’ he rides with just the loveliest lady that ever was. _He_ thinks
so, an’ _I_ KNOW she is. An’ he ’spects her.”

“What?” exclaimed the old lady.

”’Spects her, I say—that’s what _he_ says. _I_ say ’spect means just
what I call _love_. ’Cos if it don’t, what makes him give her hugs an’
kisses?”

Mrs. Mayton caught her breath—and did not reply for a moment. At last
she said:—

“How do you know he—gives her hugs and kisses?”

”’Cos I saw him, the day Toddie hurt his finger in the grass cutter.
An’ he was so happy that he bought me a goat-carriage next morning—I’ll
show it to you if you come down to our stable, an’ I’ll show you the
goat too. An’ he bought——”

Just here Budge stopped, for Mrs. Mayton put her handkerchief to her
eyes. Two or three moments later she felt a light touch on her knee,
and, wiping her eyes, saw Budge looking sympathetically into her face.

“I’m awful sorry you feel bad,” said he. “Are you ’fraid to have your
little girl ridin’ so long?”

“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Mayton, with great decision.

“Well, you needn’t be,” said Budge, “for Uncle Harry’s awful careful
an’ smart.”

“He ought to be ashamed of himself!” exclaimed the lady.

“I guess he is, then,” said Budge, ”’cos he’s ev’rything he ought to
be. He’s awful careful. T’other day, when the goat ran away, an’
Toddie an’ me got in the carriage with them, he held on to her tight,
so she couldn’t fall out.”

Mrs. Mayton brought her foot down with a violent stamp.

“I know you’d ’spect _him_, if you knew how nice he was,” continued
Budge. “He sings awful funny songs, an’ tells splendid stories.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the angry mother.

“They ain’t no nonsense at all,” said Budge. “I don’t think it’s nice
for to say that, when his stories are always about Joseph, an’ Abraham,
an’ Moses, an’ when Jesus was a little boy, an’ the Hebrew children,
an’ lots of people that the Lord loved. An’ he’s awful ’fectionate,
too.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Mayton.

“When we says our prayers we prays for the nice lady what he ’spects,
an’ he likes us to do it,” continued Budge.

“How do you know?” demanded Mrs. Mayton.

”’Cos he always kisses us when we do it an’ that’s what my papa does
when he likes what we pray.”

Mrs. Mayton’s mind became absorbed in earnest thought, but Budge had
not said all that was in his heart.

“An’ when Toddie or me tumbles down an hurts ourselves, ’tain’t no
matter what Uncle Harry’s doin’, he runs right out an’ picks us up an’
comforts us. He froed away a cigar the other day, he was in such a
hurry when a wasp stung me, an’ Toddie picked the cigar up and ate it,
an’ it made him _awful_ sick.”

The last-named incident did not affect Mrs. Mayton deeply, perhaps on
the score of inapplicability to the question before her. Budge went on:—

“An’ wasn’t he good to me to-day? Just ’cos I was forlorn, ’cos I
hadn’t nobody to play with, an’ wanted to die an’ go to heaven, he
stopped shavin’, so as to comfort me.”

Mrs. Mayton had been thinking rapidly and seriously, and her heart had
relented somewhat toward the principal offender.

“Suppose,” she said, “that I don’t let my little girl go riding with
him any more?”

“Then,” said Budge, “I know he’ll be awful, awful unhappy, an’ I’ll be
awful sorry for him, ’cos nice folks oughtn’t to be made unhappy.”

“Suppose, then, that I _do_ let her go?” said Mrs. Mayton.

[Illustration: MADE HIM AWFUL SICK]

“Then I’ll give you a whole stomachful of kisses for being so good to
my uncle,” said Budge. And assuming that the latter course would be the
one adopted by Mrs. Mayton, Budge climbed into her lap and began at
once to make payment.

“Bless your dear little heart! exclaimed Mrs. Mayton; “you’re of the
same blood, and it _is_ good, if it _is_ rather hasty.”

As I rose the next morning, I found a letter under my door.
Disappointed that it was not addressed in Alice’s writing, I was
nevertheless glad to get a word from my sister, particularly as the
letter ran as follows:—

  “July 1, 1875.

 “DEAR OLD BROTHER:—I’ve been recalling a fortnight’s experience _we_
 once had of courtship in a boarding-house, and I’ve determined to cut
 short our visit here, hurry home, and give you and Alice a chance or
 two to see each other in parlors where there won’t be a likelihood of
 the dozen or two interruptions you must suffer each evening now. Tom
 agrees with me, like the obedient old darling that he is; so please
 have the carriage at Hillcrest station for us at 11:40 Friday morning.
 Invite Alice and her mother for me to dine with us Sunday,—we’ll bring
 them home from church with us.

  “Lovingly your sister,
  “HELEN.

 “P. S. Of course you’ll have my darlings in the carriage to receive me.

 “P. S. _Would_ it annoy you to move into the best guest-chamber? I
 can’t bear to sleep where I can’t have _them_ within reach.”

Friday morning they intended to arrive,—blessings on their thoughtful
hearts!—and _this_ was Friday. I hurried into the boys’ room and
shouted:—

“Toddie! Budge! who do you think is coming to see you this morning?”

“Who?” asked Budge.

“Organ-grinder?” queried Toddie.

“No, your papa and mamma.”

Budge looked like an angel in an instant, but Toddie’s eyes twitched a
little, and he mournfully murmured:—

“I fought it wash an organ-grinder.”

“O Uncle Harry!” said Budge, springing out of bed in a perfect delirium
of delight, “I believe if my papa and mamma had stayed away any longer,
I believe I would _die_. I’ve been _so_ lonesome for ’em that I haven’t
known what to do—I’ve cried whole pillowsful about it, right here in
the dark.”

“Why, my poor old fellow,” said I, picking him up and kissing him, “why
didn’t you come up and tell Uncle Harry, and let him try to comfort
you?”

“I _couldn’t_,” said Budge; “when I gets lonesome, it feels as if my
mouth was all tied up, an’ a great big stone was right in here.” And
Budge put his hand on his chest.

“If a big ’tone wazh inshide of _me_,” said Toddie, “I’d take it out
an’ fro it at the shickens.”

“Toddie,” said I, “aren’t you glad papa and mamma are coming?”

“Yesh,” said Toddie, “I fink it’ll be awfoo nish. Mamma always bwings
me candy fen she goes away anyfere.”

“Toddie, you’re a mercenary wretch.”

“_Ain’t_ a mernesary wetch; Izhe Toddie Yawncie.”

Toddie made none the less haste in dressing than his brother,
however. Candy was to him what some systems of theology are to their
adherents—not a very lofty motive of action, but sweet, and something
he could fully understand; so the energy displayed in getting himself
tangled up in his clothes was something wonderful.

“Stop, boys,” said I; “you must have on clean clothes to-day. You don’t
want your father and mother to see you all dirty, do you?”

“Of course not,” said Budge.

“Oh, izh I goin’ to be djessed up all nicey?” asked Toddie. “Goody!
goody! goody!”

I always thought my sister Helen had an undue amount of vanity, and
here it was reappearing in the second generation.

“An’ I wantsh my shoes made all nigger,” said Toddie.

“What?”

“Wantsh my shoes made all nigger wif a bottle-bwush, too,” said Toddie.

I looked appealingly at Budge, who answered:—

“He means he wants his shoes blacked, with the polish that’s in the
bottle, an’ you rub it on with a brush.”

“An’ I wantsh a thath on,” continued Toddie.

“Sash, he means,” said Budge. “He’s awful proud.”

“An’ Izhe doin’ to wear my takker-hat,” said Toddie. “An’ my wed
djuvs.”

“That’s his tassel-hat an’ his red gloves,” continued the interpreter.

“Toddie, you can’t wear gloves such hot days as these,” said I.

A look of inquiry was speedily followed by Toddie’s own unmistakable
preparations for weeping; and as I did not want his eyes dimmed when
his mother looked into them I hastily exclaimed:—

“Put them on, then—put on the mantle of rude Boreas if you choose; but
don’t go to crying.”

“Don’t want no mantle-o’wude-baw-yusses,” declared Toddie, following me
phonetically, “wantsh my own pitty cozhesh, an’ nobody eshesh.”

“O Uncle Harry,” exclaimed Budge, “I want to bring mamma home in my
goat-carriage!”

“The goat isn’t strong enough, Budge, to draw mamma and you.”

“Well, then, let me drive down to the depot, just to _show_ papa an’
mamma I’ve got a goat-carriage—I’m sure mamma would be very unhappy
when she found out I had one, and she hadn’t seen it first thing.”

“Well, I guess you may follow me down, Budge; but you must drive very
carefully.”

“Oh, yes—I wouldn’t get us hurt when mamma was coming for _any_thing.”

“Now, boys,” said I, “I want you to stay in the house and play this
morning. If you go out of doors you’ll get yourselves dirty.”

“I guess the sun’ll be disappointed if it don’t have us to look at,”
suggested Budge.

[Illustration: “THE SUN’LL BE DISAPPOINTED IF IT DON’T HAVE US TO LOOK
AT”]

“Never mind,” said I, “the sun’s old enough to have learned to be
patient.”

Breakfast over, the boys moved reluctantly away to the play-room,
while I inspected the house and grounds pretty closely, to see that
everything should at least fail to do my management discredit. A dollar
given to Mike and another to Maggie were of material assistance in
this work, so I felt free to adorn the parlors and Helen’s chamber
with flowers. As I went into the latter room I heard some one at the
wash-stand, which was in an alcove and, on looking in, I saw Toddie
drinking the last of the contents of a goblet which contained a
dark-colored mixture.

“Izhe tatin’ black medshin,” said Toddie; “I likes black medshin awfoo
muts.”

“What do you make it of?” I asked, with some sympathy, and tracing
parental influence again. When Helen and I were children we spent hours
in soaking licorice in water and administering it as medicine.

“Makesh it out of shoda mitsture,” said Toddie.

This was another medicine of our childhood days, but one prepared
according to physician’s prescription, and not beneficial when taken
_ad libitum_. As I took the vial—a two-ounce one—I asked:—

“How much did you take, Toddie?”

“Took whole bottoo full—’twas nysh,” said he.

Suddenly, the label caught my eye—it read PAREGORIC. In a second I had
snatched a shawl, wrapped Toddie in it, tucked him under my arm, and
was on my way to the barn. In a moment more I was on one of the horses
and galloping furiously to the village, with Toddie under one arm, his
yellow curls streaming in the breeze. People came out and stared as
they did at John Gilpin, while one old farmer whom I met turned his
team about, whipped up furiously, and followed me, shouting, “Stop,
thief!” I afterward learned that he took me to be one of the abductors
of Charlie Ross, with the lost child under my arm, and that visions of
the $20,000 reward floated before his eyes. In front of an apothecary’s
I brought the horse suddenly upon his haunches, and dashed in,
exclaiming:—

“Give this child a strong emetic—quick! He’s swallowed poison!”

The apothecary hurried to his prescription-desk, while a
motherly-looking Irish woman upon whom he had been waiting, exclaimed,
“Holy Mither! I’ll run an’ fetch Father O’Kelley,” and hurried out.
Meanwhile Toddie, upon whom the medicine had not commenced to take
effect, had seized the apothecary’s cat by the tail, which operation
resulted in a considerable vocal protest from that animal.

The experiences of the next few moments were more pronounced and
revolutionary than pleasing to relate in detail. It is sufficient
to say that Toddie’s weight was materially diminished, and that his
complexion was temporarily pallid. Father O’Kelley arrived at a brisk
run, and was honestly glad to find that his services were not required,
although I assured him that if Catholic baptism and a sprinkling of
holy water would have improved Toddie’s character, I thought there was
excuse for several applications. We rode quietly back to the house, and
while I was asking Maggie to try and coax Toddie into taking a nap, I
heard the patient remark to his brother:—

[Illustration: GALLOPING FURIOUSLY TO THE VILLAGE]

“Budgie, down to the village I was a whay-al. I didn’t froe up Djonah,
but I froed up a whole floor full of uvver fings.”

During the hour which passed before it was time to start for the depot
my sole attention was devoted to keeping the children from soiling
their clothes; but my success was so little, that I lost my temper
entirely. First they insisted upon playing on a part of the lawn which
the sun had not yet reached. Then, while I had gone into the house for
a match to light my cigar, Toddie had gone with his damp shoes into the
middle of the road, where the dust was ankle deep. Then they got upon
their hands and knees on the piazza and played bear. Each one wanted
to pick a bouquet for his mother, and Toddie took the precaution to
smell every flower he approached—an operation which caused him to get
his nose covered with lily-pollen, so that he looked like a badly used
prize-fighter. In one of their spasms of inaction, Budge asked:—

“What makes some of the men in church have no hair on the tops of their
heads, Uncle Harry?”

“Because,” said I, pausing long enough to shake Toddie for trying to
get my watch out of my pocket, “because they have bad little boys to
bother them all the time, so their hair drops out.”

“I dess _my_ hairs is a-goin’ to drop out pitty soon, then,” remarked
Toddie, with an injured air.

[Illustration: MIKE TELLING MAGGIE TO GET LUNCH]

“Harness the horses, Mike!” I shouted.

“An’ the goat, too,” added Budge.

Five minutes later I was seated in the carriage, or rather in Tom’s
two-seated open wagon. “Mike,” I shouted, “I forgot to tell Maggie to
have some lunch ready for the folks when they get here—run, tell her,
quick, won’t you?”

“Oye, oye, sur,” said Mike, and off he went.

“Are you all ready, boys?” I asked.

“In a minute,” said Budge; “soon as I fix this. Now,” he continued,
getting into his seat, and taking the reins and whip, “go ahead.”

“Wait a moment, Budge—put down that whip, and don’t touch the goat with
it once on the way. I’m going to drive very slowly—there’s plenty of
time, and all you need to do is to hold your reins.”

“All right,” said Budge, “but I like to look like mans when I drive.”

“You may do that when somebody can run beside you. Now!”

The horses started at a gentle trot, and the goat followed very
closely. When within a minute of the depot, however, the train swept
in. I had intended to be on the platform to meet Tom and Helen, but my
watch was evidently slow. I gave the horses the whip, looked behind
and saw the boys were close upon me, and I was so near the platform
when I turned my head that nothing but the sharpest of turns saved me
from a severe accident. The noble animals saw the danger as quickly as
I did, however, and turned in marvelously small space; as they did so,
I heard two hard thumps upon the wooden wall of the little depot, heard
also two frightful howls, saw both my nephews considerably mixed up on
the platform, while the driver of the Bloom-Park stage growled in my
ear:—

“What in thunder did you let ’em hitch that goat to your axle-tree for?”

I looked, and saw the man spoke with just cause. How the goat’s
head and shoulders had maintained their normal connection during
the last minute of my drive, I leave for naturalists to explain. I
had no time to meditate on the matter just then, for the train had
stopped. Fortunately the children had struck on their heads, and the
Lawrence-Burton skull is a marvel of solidity. I set them upon their
feet, brushed them off with my hands, promised them all the candy they
could eat for a week, wiped their eyes, and hurried them to the other
side of the depot. Budge rushed at Tom, exclaiming:—

“See my goat, papa!”

Helen opened her arms, and Toddie threw himself into them, sobbing:—

“Mam—_ma_! shing ’Toddie one-boy-day!’”

How uncomfortable a man _can_ feel in the society of a dearly beloved
sister and an incomparable brother-in-law I never imagined until that
short drive. Helen was somewhat concerned about the children, but she
found time to look at me with so much of sympathy, humor, affection,
and condescension that I really felt relieved when we reached the
house. I hastily retired to my own room, but before I had shut the door
Helen was with me, and her arms were about my neck; before the dear old
girl removed them we had grown far nearer to each other than we had
ever been before.

And how gloriously the rest of the day passed off. We had a delightful
little lunch, and Tom brought up a bottle of Roederer, and Helen
didn’t remonstrate when he insisted on its being drank from her finest
glasses, and there were toasts drank to “Her” and “Her Mother,” and
to the Benedict that was to be. And then Helen proposed “The makers
of the match—Budge and Toddie!” which was honored with bumpers. The
gentlemen toasted did not respond, but they stared so curiously that I
sprang from my chair and kissed them soundly, upon which Tom and Helen
exchanged significant glances.

Then Helen walked down to Mrs. Clarkson’s boarding-house, all for
the purpose of showing a lady there, with a skirt to make over, just
how she had seen a similar garment rearranged exquisitely. And Alice
strolled down to the gate with her to say good-by; and they had so much
to talk about that Helen walked Alice nearly to our house, and then
insisted on her coming the rest of the way, so she might be driven
home. And then Mike was sent back with a note to say to Mrs. Mayton
that her daughter had been prevailed upon to stay to evening dinner,
but would be sent home under capable escort. And after dinner was
over and the children put to bed, Tom groaned that he _must_ attend a
road-board meeting, and Helen begged us to excuse her just a minute
while she ran in to the doctor’s to ask how poor Mrs. Brown had been
doing, and she consumed three hours and twenty-five minutes in asking,
bless her sympathetic soul!

The dreaded ending of my vacation did not cause me as many pangs as I
had expected. Helen wanted to know one evening why if her poor, dear
Tom could go back and forth to the city to business every day, her lazy
big brother couldn’t go back and forth to Hillcrest daily, if she were
to want him as a boarder for the remainder of the season. Although I
had for years inveighed against the folly of cultivated people leaving
the city to find residences, Helen’s argument was unanswerable and I
submitted. I did even more; I purchased a lovely bit of ground (though
the deed stands in Tom’s name for the present), and Tom has brought up
several plans for cottage-houses, and every evening they are spread on
the dining-room table, and there gather round them four people, among
whom are a white goods salesman and a young lady with the brightest of
eyes and cheeks full of roses and lilies. This latter-named personage
has her own opinions of the merits of all plans suggested, and insisted
that whatever plan _is_ adopted _must_ have a lovely room to be set
apart as the exclusive property of Helen’s boys. Young as these
gentlemen are, I find frequent occasions to be frightfully jealous of
them, but they are unmoved by either my frowns or persuasions—artifice
alone is able to prevent their monopolizing the time of an adorable
being, of whose society I cannot possibly have too much. She insists
that when the ceremony takes place in December, they shall officiate
as groomsmen, and I have not the slightest doubt that she will carry
her point. In fact, I confess to frequent affectionate advances toward
them myself, and when I retire without first seeking their room and
putting a grateful kiss upon their unconscious lips, my conscience
upbraids me with base ingratitude. To think I might yet be a hopeless
bachelor had it not been for them, is to overflow with thankfulness to
the giver of

 HELEN’S BABIES.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Other
variations in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accents remain
unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.