Part 2

“Well,” said Budge, “Once upon a time the Lord told Jonah to go to Nineveh and tell the people they was all bad. But Jonah didn’t want to go, so he went on a boat that was going to Joppa. An’ then there was a big storm, an’ it rained an’ blowed and the big waves went as high as a house. An’ the sailors thought there must be somebody on the boat that the Lord didn’t like. An’ Jonah said he guessed _he_ was the man. So they picked him up and froed him in the ocean, an’ I don’t think it was well for ’em to do that after Jonah told the troof. An’ a big whale was comin’ along, an’ he was awful hungry, ’cos the little fishes what he likes to eat all went down to the bottom of the ocean when it began to storm, and whales can’t go to the bottom of the ocean, ’cos they have to come up to breeve, an’ little fishes don’t. An’ Jonah found ’twas all dark inside the whale, and there wasn’t any fire there, an’ it was all wet, an’ he couldn’t take off his clothes to dry, ’cos there wasn’t no place to hang ’em, and there wasn’t no windows to look out of, nor nothin’ to eat, nor nothin’ nor nothin’ nor nothin’. So he asked the Lord to let him out, an’ the Lord was sorry for him, an’ He made the whale go up close to the land, an’ Jonah jumped right out of his mouth, and _wasn’t_ he glad? An’ then he went to Nineveh, an’ done what the Lord told him to, an’ he ought to have done it in the first place if he had known what was good for him.”

“Done first payshe, know what’s dood for him,” asserted Toddie, in support of his brother’s assertion. “Tell us ’nudder story.”

“Oh, no, sing us a song,” suggested Budge.

“Shing us shong,” echoed Toddie.

I searched my mind for a song, but the only one which came promptly was “M’Appari,” several bars of which I gave my juvenile audience, when Budge interrupted me, saying:—

“I don’t think that’s a very good song.”

“Why not, Budge?”

”’Cos I don’t. I don’t know a word what you’re talking ’bout.”

“Shing ’bout ‘Glory, glory, hallelulyah,’” suggested Toddie, and I meekly obeyed. The old air has a wonderful influence over me. I heard it in western campmeetings and negro cabins when I was a boy; I saw the 22nd Massachusetts march down Broadway, singing the same air during the rush to the front in the early days of the war; I have heard it sung by warrior tongues in nearly every southern state; I heard it roared by three hundred good old Hunker Democrats as they escorted New York’s first colored regiment to their place of embarkation; my old brigade sang it softly, but with a swing that was terrible in its earnestness, as they lay behind their stacks of arms just before going into action; I have heard it played over the grave of many a dead comrade; the semi-mutinous—th cavalry became peaceful and patriotic again, as their bandmaster played the old air after having asked permission to try _his_ hand on them; it is the same that burst forth spontaneously in our barracks, on that glorious morning when we learned that the war was over, and it was sung, with words adapted to the occasion, by some good rebel friends of mine, on our first social meeting after the war. All these recollections came hurrying into my mind as I sang, and probably excited me beyond my knowledge. For Budge suddenly remarked:—

“Don’t sing that all day, Uncle Harry; you sing so loud, it hurts my head.”

“Beg your pardon, Budge,” said I. “Good night.”

“Why, Uncle Harry, are you going? You didn’t hear us say our prayers,—papa always does.”

“Oh! Well, go ahead.”

“You must say yours first,” said Budge; “that’s the way papa does.”

“Very well,” said I, and I repeated St. Chrysostom’s prayer, from the Episcopal service. I had hardly said “Amen,” when Budge remarked:—

“My papa don’t say any of them things at all; I don’t think that’s a very good prayer.”

“Well, you say a good prayer, Budge.”

“All right.” Budge shut his eyes, dropped his voice to the most perfect tone of supplication, while his face seemed fit for a sleeping angel; then he said:—

“Dear Lord, we thank you for lettin’ us have a good time to-day, an’ we hope all the little boys everywhere have had good times too. We pray you to take care of us an’ everybody else to-night, an’ don’t let ’em have any trouble. Oh, yes, an’ Uncle Harry’s got some candy in his trunk, ’cos he said so in the carriage,—we thank you for lettin’ Uncle Harry come to see us, an’ we hope he’s got _lots_ of candy—lots an’ piles. An’ we pray you to take care of all the poor little boys and girls that haven’t got any papas an’ mammas an’ Uncle Harrys an’ candy an’ beds to sleep in. An’ take us all to Heaven when we die, for Christ’s sake. Amen. Now give us the candy, Uncle Harry.”

“Hush, Budge; don’t Toddie say any prayers?”

“Oh, yes; go on, Tod.”

Toddie closed his eyes, wriggled, twisted, breathed hard and quick, acting generally as if prayers were principally a matter of physical exertion. At last he began:—

“Dee Lord, not make me sho bad, an’ besh mamma, an’ papa, an’ Budgie, an’ doppity,[1] an’ both boggies,[2] an’ all good people in dish house, an’ everybody else, an’ my dolly. A—a—amen!”

[1] Grandfather.

[2] Grandmothers.

“Now give us the candy,” said Budge, with the usual echo from Toddie.

I hastily extracted the candy from my trunk, gave some to each boy, the recipients fairly shrieking with delight, and once more said good night.

“Oh, you didn’t give us any pennies,” said Budge. “Papa gives us some to put in our banks, every night.”

“Well, I haven’t got any now—wait until to-morrow.”

“Then we want drinks.”

“I’ll let Maggie bring you drink.”

“Want my dolly,” murmured Toddie.

I found the knotted towels, took the dirty things up gingerly and threw them upon the bed.

“Now want to shee wheels go wound,” said Toddie.

I hurried out of the room and slammed the door. I looked at my watch—it was half-past eight; I had spent an hour and a half with those dreadful children. They _were_ funny, to be sure—I found myself laughing, in spite of my indignation. Still, if they were to monopolize my time as they had already done, when was I to do my reading? Taking Fiske’s “Cosmic Philosophy” from my trunk, I descended to the back parlor, lit a cigar and a student-lamp, and began to read. I had not fairly commenced when I heard a patter of small feet, and saw my elder nephew before me. There was sorrowful protestation in every line of his countenance, as he exclaimed:—

“You didn’t say ‘Good-by,’ nor ‘God bless you,’ nor anything.”

“Oh—good-by.”

“Good-by.”

“God bless you.”

“God bless you.”

Budge seemed waiting for something else. At last he said:—

“Papa says, ‘God bless everybody.’”

“Well, God bless everybody.”

“God bless everybody,” responded Budge, and turned silently and went upstairs.

“Bless your tormenting honest little heart.” I said to myself; “if men trusted God as you do your papa, how little business there’d be for preachers to do.”

The night was a perfect one. The pure, fresh air, the perfume of the flowers, the music of the insect choir in the trees and shrubbery—the very season itself seemed to forbid my reading philosophy, so I laid Fiske aside, delighted myself with a few rare bits from Paul Hayne’s new volume of poems, read a few chapters of “One Summer,” and finally sauntered off to bed. My nephews were slumbering sweetly; it seemed impossible that the pure, exquisite, angelic faces before me belonged to my tormentors of a few hours before. As I lay on my couch I could see the dark shadow and rugged crest of the mountain; above it, the silver stars against the blue, and below it the rival lights of the fireflies against the dark background formed by the mountain itself. No rumbling of wheels tormented me, nor any of the thousand noises that fill city air with the spirit of unrest, and I fell into a wonder almost indignant that sensible, comfort-loving beings could live in horrible New York, while such delightful rural homes were so near at hand. Then Alice Mayton came into my mind, and then a customer; later, stars and trade-marks, and bouquets, and dirty nephews, and fireflies and bad accounts, and railway tickets, and candy and Herbert Spencer, mixed themselves confusingly in my mind. Then a vision of a proud angel, in the most fashionable attire and a modern carriage, came and banished them all by its perfect radiance, and I was sinking in the most blissful unconsciousness—

“Ah—h—h—h—h—h—oo—oo—oo—oo—ee—ee—e—”

“Sh—h—h!” I hissed.

The warning was heeded, and I soon relapsed into oblivion.

“Ah—h—h—h—oo—oo—ee—_ee_—EE—ee!”

“Toddie, do you want your uncle to whip you?”

“No.”

“Then lie still.”

“Well, I’ze lost my dolly, an’ I tan’t find her anywhere.”

“Well, I’ll find her for you in the morning.”

“Oo—oo—ee—I want my dolly.”

“Well, I tell you I’ll find her for you in the morning.”

“I want her _now_—oo—oo—”

“You can’t have her now, so you can go to sleep.”

“Oh—oo—oo—oo—ee—”

Springing madly to my feet, I started for the offender’s room. I encountered a door ajar by the way, my forehead being the first to discover it. I ground my teeth, lit a candle, and said something—no matter what.

“Oh, you said a bad swear!” ejaculated Toddie; “you won’t go to heaven when you die.”

“Neither will you, if you howl like a little demon all night. Are you going to be quiet, now?”

“Yesh, but I wants my dolly.”

“_I_ don’t know where your dolly is—do you suppose I’m going to search this entire house for that confounded dolly?”

“_’Tain’t_ ’founded. I wants my dolly.”

“I don’t know where it is. You don’t think I stole your dolly, do you?”

“Well, I wants it, in de bed wif me.”

“Charles,” said I, “when you arise in the morning, I hope your doll will be found. At present, however, you must be resigned and go to sleep. I’ll cover you up nicely”; here I began to rearrange the bed clothing, when the fateful dolly, source of all my woes, tumbled out of them. Toddie clutched it, his whole face lighting up with affectionate delight, and he screamed:—

“Oh, dare is my dee dolly; turn to your own papa, dolly, an’ I’ll love you.”

And that ridiculous child was so completely satisfied by his outlay of affection, that my own indignation gave place to genuine artistic pleasure. One _can_ tire of even beautiful pictures, though, when he is not fully awake, and is holding a candle in a draught of air; so I covered my nephews and returned to my own room, where I mused upon the contradictoriness of childhood until I fell asleep.

In the morning I was awakened very early by the light streaming in the window, the blinds of which I had left open the night before. The air was alive with bird-song, and the eastern sky was flushed with tints which no painter’s canvas ever caught. But ante-sunrise skies and songs are not fit subjects for the continued contemplation of men who read until midnight; so I hastily closed the blinds, drew the shade, dropped the curtains and lay down again, dreamily thanking Heaven that I was to fall asleep to such exquisite music. I am sure that I mentally forgave all my enemies as I dropped off into a most delicious doze, but the sudden realization that a light hand was passing over my cheek roused me to savage anger in an instant. I sprang up, and saw Budge shrink timidly away from my bedside.

“I was only lovin’ you, ’cos you was good, and brought us candy. Papa lets us love him whenever we want to—every morning he does.”

“As early as this?” demanded I.

“Yes, just as soon as we can see, if we want to.”

Poor Tom! I never _could_ comprehend why, with a good wife, a comfortable income, and a clear conscience, he need always look thin and worn—worse than he ever did in Virginia woods or Louisiana swamps. But now I knew all. And yet, what could one do? That child’s eyes and voice, and his expression, which exceeded in sweetness that of any of the angels I had ever imagined,—that child could coax a man to do more self-forgetting deeds than the shortening of his precious sleeping-hours amounted to. In fact, he was fast divesting me of my rightful sleepiness, so I kissed him and said:—

“Run to bed, now, dear old fellow, and let uncle go to sleep again. After breakfast I’ll make you a whistle.”

“Oh! will you?” The angel turned into a boy at once.

“Yes; now run along.”

“A _loud_ whistle—a real loud one?”

“Yes, but not if you don’t go right back to bed.”

The sound of little footsteps receded as I turned over and closed my eyes. Speedily the bird-song seemed to grow fainter; my thoughts dropped to pieces; I seemed to be floating on fleecy clouds, in company with hundreds of cherubs with Budge’s features and night-drawers—

“Uncle Harry!”

May the Lord forget the prayer I put up just then!

“I’ll discipline you, my fine little boy,” thought I. “Perhaps, if I let you shriek your abominable little throat hoarse, you’ll learn better than to torment your uncle, that was just getting ready to love you dearly.”

“Uncle Har—_ray_!”

“Howl away, you little imp,” thought I. “You’ve got me wide awake, and your lungs may suffer for it.” Suddenly I heard, although in sleepy tones, and with a lazy drawl, some words which appalled me. The murmurer was Toddie:—

“Want—shee—wheels—go—wound.”

“Budge!” I shouted, in the desperation of my dread lest Toddie, too, might wake up, “what _do_ you want?”

“Uncle Harry!”

“WHAT!”

“Uncle Harry, what kind of wood are you going to make the whistle out of?”

“I won’t make any at all—I’ll cut a big stick and give you a sound whipping with it, for not keeping quiet, as I told you to.”

“Why, Uncle Harry, papa don’t whip us with sticks—he spanks us.”

Heavens! Papa! papa! papa! Was I never to have done with this eternal quotation of “papa”? I was horrified to find myself gradually conceiving a dire hatred of my excellent brother-in-law. One thing was certain, at any rate: sleep was no longer possible; so I hastily dressed and went into the garden. Among the beauty and the fragrance of the flowers, and in the delicious morning air, I succeeded in regaining my temper, and was delighted, on answering the breakfast-bell, two hours later, to have Budge accost me with:—

“Why, Uncle Harry, where was you? We looked all over the house for you, and couldn’t find a speck of you.”

The breakfast was an excellent one. I afterward learned that Helen, dear old girl, had herself prepared a bill of fare for every meal I should take in the house. As the table talk of myself and nephews was not such as could do harm by being repeated, I requested Maggie, the servant, to wait upon the children, and I accompanied my request with a small treasury note. Relieved, thus, of all responsibility for the dreadful appetites of my nephews, I did full justice to the repast, and even regarded with some interest and amusement the industry of Budge and Toddie with their tiny forks and spoons. They ate rapidly for a while, but soon their appetites weakened and their tongues were unloosed.

“Ocken Hawwy,” remarked Toddie, “daysh an awfoo funny chunt up ’tairs—awfoo _big_ chunt. I show it you after brepspup.”

“Toddie’s a silly little boy,” said Budge, “he always says brepspup for brekbux.”[3]

[3] Breakfast.

“Oh! What does he mean by chunt, Budge?”

“I _guess_ he means trunk,” replied my oldest nephew.

Recollections of my childish delight in rummaging an old trunk—it seems a century ago that I did it—caused me to smile sympathetically at Toddie, to his apparent great delight. “How delightful it is to strike a sympathetic chord in child nature,” thought I; “how quickly the infant eye comprehends the look which precedes the verbal expression of an idea? Dear Toddie! for years we might sit at one table, careless of each other’s words, but the casual mention of one of thy delights has suddenly brought our souls into that sweetest of all human communions—that one which doubtless bound the Master himself to that apostle who was otherwise apparently the weakest among the chosen twelve.” “An awfoo funny chunt” seemed to annihilate suddenly all differences of age, condition and experience between the wee boy and myself, and——

A direful thought struck me. I dashed up stairs and into my room. Yes, he _did_ mean my trunk. _I_ could see nothing funny about it—quite the contrary. The bond of sympathy between my nephew and myself was suddenly broken. Looking at the matter from the comparative distance which a few weeks have placed between that day and this, I can see that I was unable to consider the scene before me with a calm and unprejudiced mind. I am now satisfied that the sudden birth and hasty decease of my sympathy with Toddie were striking instances of human inconsistency. My soul had gone out to his because he loved to rummage in trunks, and because I imagined he loved to see the monument of incongruous material which resulted from such an operation; the scene before me showed clearly that I had rightly divined my nephew’s nature. And yet my selfish instincts hastened to obscure my soul’s vision, and to prevent that joy which should ensue when “faith is lost in full fruition.”

My trunk had contained nearly everything, for while a campaigner I had learned to reduce packing to an exact science. Now, had there been an atom of pride in my composition I might have glorified myself, for it certainly seemed as if the heap upon the floor could never have come out of a single trunk. Clearly, Toddie was more of a general connoisseur than an amateur in packing. The method of his work I quickly discerned, and the discovery threw some light upon the size of the heap in front of my trunk. A dress hat and its case, when their natural relationship is dissolved, occupy nearly twice as much space as before, even if the former contains a blacking-box not usually kept in it, and the latter a few cigars soaking in bay rum. The same might be said of a portable dressing-case and its contents, bought for me in Vienna by a brother ex-soldier, and designed by an old Continental campaigner to be perfection itself. The straps which prevented the cover from falling entirely back had been cut, broken or parted in some way, and in its hollow lay my dress-coat, tightly rolled up. Snatching it up with a violent exclamation, and unrolling it, there dropped from it—one of those infernal dolls. At the same time a howl was sounded from the doorway.

“You tookted my dolly out of her cradle—I want to wock[4] my dolly—oo—oo—oo—ee—ee—ee—!”

[4] Rock.

“You young scoundrel!” I screamed—yes, howled, I was so enraged—“I’ve a great mind to cut your throat this minute. What do you mean by meddling with my trunk?”

“I—doe—know.” Outward turned Toddie’s lower lip; I believe the sight of it would move a Bengal tiger to pity, but no such thought occurred to me just then.

“What made you do it?”

“_Be_—cause.”

“Because what?”

“I—doe—know.”

Just then a terrific roar arose from the garden. Looking out, I saw Budge with a bleeding finger upon one hand, and my razor in the other; he afterward explained he had been making a boat, and that the knife was bad to him. To apply adhesive plaster to the cut was the work of but a minute, and I had barely completed this surgical operation when Tom’s gardener-coachman appeared, and handed me a letter. It was addressed in Helen’s well-known hand, and read as follows (the passages in brackets were my own comments):—

“BLOOMDALE, JUNE 21, 1875.

“DEAR HARRY:—I’m very happy in the thought that you are with my darling children, and, although I’m having a lovely time here, I often wish I was with you. [Ump—so do I.] I want you to know the little treasures real well. [Thank you, but I don’t think I care to extend the acquaintanceship farther than is absolutely necessary.] It seems to me so unnatural that relatives know so little of those of their own blood, and especially of the innocent little spirits whose existence is almost unheeded. [Not when there’s unlocked trunks standing about, sis.]

“Now I want to ask a favor of you. When we were boys and girls at home, you used to talk perfect oceans about physiognomy, and phrenology, and unerring signs of character. I thought it was all nonsense then, but if you believe it now, I wish you’d study the children, and give me your well-considered opinion of them. [Perfect demons, ma’am; imps, rascals, born to be hung—both of them.]

“I can’t get over the feeling that dear Budge is born for something grand. [Grand nuisance.] He is sometimes so thoughtful and so absorbed, that I almost fear the result of disturbing him; then, he has that faculty of perseverance which seems to be the only thing some men have lacked to make them great. [He certainly has it; he exemplified it while I was trying to get to sleep this morning.]

“Toddie is going to make a poet or a musician or an artist. [That’s so; all abominable scamps take to some artistic pursuit as an excuse for loafing.] His fancies take hold of him very strongly. [They do—they do; “shee wheels go wound,” for instance.] He has not Budgie’s sublime earnestness, but he doesn’t need it; the irresistible force with which he is drawn toward whatever is beautiful compensates for the lack. [Ah—perhaps that explains his operation with my trunk.] But I want your _own_ opinion, for I know you make more careful distinction in character than I do.

“Delighting myself with the idea that I deserve most of the credit for the lots of reading you will have done by this time, and hoping I shall soon have a line telling me how my darlings are, I am, as ever,

“Your loving sister, “HELEN.”

Seldom have I been so roused by a letter as I was by this one, and never did I promise myself more genuine pleasure in writing a reply. I determined that it should be a masterpiece of analysis and of calm yet forcible expression of opinion.

Upon one step, at any rate, I was positively determined. Calling the girl, I asked her where the key was that locked the door between my room and the children.

“Please, sir, Toddie threw it down the well.”

“Is there a locksmith in the village?”

“No, sir; the nearest one is at Paterson.”

“Is there a screw-driver in the house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring it to me, and tell the coachman to get ready at once to drive me to Paterson.”

The screw-driver was brought, and with it I removed the lock, got into the carriage, and told the driver to take me to Paterson by the hill road—one of the most beautiful roads in America.

“Paterson!” exclaimed Budge. “Oh, there’s a candy store in that town; come on, Toddie.”

“Will you?” thought I, snatching the whip and giving the horses a cut. “Not if _I_ can help it. The idea of having such a drive spoiled by the clatter of _such_ a couple!”