Part 3

Away went the horses, and up went a piercing shriek and a terrible roar. It seemed that both children must have been mortally hurt, and I looked out hastily, only to see Budge and Toddie running after the carriage, and crying pitifully. It was too pitiful,—I could not have proceeded without them, even if they had been inflicted with smallpox. The driver stopped of his own accord,—he seemed to know the children’s ways and their results,—and I helped Budge and Toddie in, meekly hoping that the eye of Providence was upon me, and that so self-sacrificing an act would be duly passed to my credit. As we reached the hill road, my kindness to my nephews seemed to assume greater proportions, for the view before me was inexpressibly beautiful. The air was perfectly clear, and across two score towns I saw the great metropolis itself, the silent city of Greenwood beyond it, the bay, the Narrows, the Sound, the two silvery rivers lying between me and the Palisades, and even, across and to the south of Brooklyn, the ocean itself. Wonderful effects of light and shadow, picturesque masses, composed of detached buildings, so far distant that they seemed huddled together; grim factories turned to beautiful palaces by the dazzling reflection of sunlight from their window-panes; great ships seeming in the distance to be toy boats floating idly;—with no signs of life perceptible, the whole scene recalled the fairy stories read in my youthful days, of enchanted cities, and the illusion was greatly strengthened by the dragon-like shape of the roof of New York’s new post-office, lying in the center of everything, and seeming to brood over all.

“Uncle Harry!”

Ah, that was what I expected!

“Uncle Harry!”

“Well, Budge?”

“I always think that looks like heaven.”

“What does?”

“Why, all that,—from here over to that other sky ’way back there behind everything I mean. And I think _that_ (here he pointed toward what probably was a photographer’s roof-light)—that place where it’s so shiny, is where God stays.”

Bless the child! The scene had suggested only elfindom to _me_, and yet I prided myself on my quick sense of artistic effects.

“An’ over there where that awful bright _little_ speck is,” continued Budge, “that’s where dear little brother Phillie is; whenever I look over there, I see him putting his hand out.”

“Dee ’ittle Phillie went to s’eep in a box, and ze Lord took him to heaven,” murmured Toddie, putting together all he had seen and heard of death. Then he raised his voice and exclaimed:—

“Ocken Hawwy, you know what Iz’he goin’ do when I be’s big man? Iz’he goin’ to have hosses an’ tarridge, an’ Iz’he goin’ to wide over all ze chees an’ all ze houses an’ all ze world an’ ewyfing. An’ whole lots of little birdies is comin’ in my tarridge an’ sing songs to me, an’ you can come too if you want to, an’ we’ll have _ice_-cream an’ trawberries an’ see ’ittle fishes swimmin’ down in ze water, an’ we’ll get a g’eat big house that’s all p’itty on the outshide an’ all p’itty on the inshide, an’ it’ll all be ours an’ we’ll do just ewyfing we want to.”

“Toddie, you’re an idealist.”

“_Ain’t_ a ’dealisht.”

“Toddie’s a goosey-gander,” remarked Budge, with great gravity. “Uncle Harry, do you think heaven’s as nice as that place over there?”

“Yes, Budge, a great deal nicer.”

“Then why don’t we die an’ go there? I don’t want to go on livin’ forever an’ ever. I don’t see why we don’t die right away; I think we’ve lived enough of days.”

“The Lord wants us to live until we get good and strong and smart, and do a great deal of good before we die, old fellow—that’s why we don’t die right away.”

“Well, I want to see dear little Phillie, an’ if the Lord won’t let him come down here, I think he might let me die an’ go to heaven. Little Phillie always laughed when I jumped for him. Uncle Harry, angels has wings, don’t they?”

“Some people think they have, old boy.”

“Well, I know they _don’t_, ’cos if Phillie had wings, I know he’d fly right down an’ see me. So they don’t.”

“But maybe he has to go somewhere else, Budge, or maybe he comes and you can’t see him. We can’t see angels with _our_ eyes, you know.”

“Then what made the Hebrew children in the fiery furnace see one? Their eyes was just like ours, wasn’t they? I don’t care; I want to see dear little Phillie _awful_ much. Uncle Harry, if I went to heaven, do you know what I’d do?”

“What _would_ you do, Budge?”

“Why, after I saw little Phillie, I’d go right up to the Lord an’ give him a great big hug.”

“What for, Budge?”

“Oh, ’cos he lets us have nice times, an’ gave me my mamma an’ papa, an’ Phillie— but he took him away again—an’ Toddie, but Toddie’s a dreadful bad boy sometimes, though.”

“Very true, Budge,” said I, remembering my trunk and the object of my ride.

“Uncle Harry, did you ever see the Lord?”

“No, Budge; he has been very close to me a good many times, but I never saw him.”

“Well, _I_ have; I see him every time I look up in the sky, and there ain’t nobody with me.”

The driver crossed himself and whispered, “He’s foriver a-sayin’ that, an’ be the powers, I belave him. Sometimes ye’d think that the howly saints themselves was a-spakin’ whin that bye gits to goin’ on that way.”

It _was_ wonderful. Budge’s countenance seemed too pure to be of the earth as he continued to express his ideas of the better land and its denizens. As for Toddie, his tongue was going incessantly, although in a tone scarcely audible; but when I chanced to catch his expressions, they were so droll and fanciful, that I took him upon my lap that I might hear him more distinctly. I even detected myself in the act of examining the mental draft of my proposed letter to Helen, and of being ashamed of it. But neither Toddie’s fancy nor Budge’s spirituality caused me to forget the principal object of my ride. I found a locksmith and left the lock to be fitted with a key; then we drove to the Falls. Both boys discharged volleys of questions as we stood by the gorge, and the fact that the roar of the falling water prevented me from hearing them did not cause them to relax their efforts in the least. I walked to the hotel for a cigar, taking the children with me. I certainly spent no more than three minutes in selecting and lighting a cigar, and asking the barkeeper a few questions about the Falls; but when I turned, the children were missing, nor could I see them in any direction. Suddenly, before my eyes, arose from the nearer brink of the gorge two yellowish disks, which I recognized as the hats of my nephews; then I saw between the disks and me two small figures lying upon the ground. I was afraid to shout, for fear of scaring them if they happened to hear me. I bounded across the grass, industriously raving and praying by turns. They were lying on their stomachs and looking over the edge of the cliff. I approached them on tiptoe, threw myself upon the ground, and grasped a foot of each child.

“Oh, Uncle Harry!” screamed Budge in my ear, as I dragged him close to me, kissing and shaking him alternately; “I hunged over more than Toddie did.”

“Well, I—I—I—I—I—I—I—hunged over a good deal, _any_how,” said Toddie, in self-defense.

That afternoon I devoted to making a bouquet for Miss Mayton, and a most delightful occupation I found it. It was no florist’s bouquet, composed of only a few kinds of flowers, wired upon sticks, and arranged according to geometric pattern. I used many a rare flower, too shy of bloom to recommend itself to florists; I combined tints almost as numerous as the flowers were, and perfumes to which city bouquets are utter strangers. Arranging flowers is a favorite pastime of mine, but upon this particular occasion I enjoyed my work more than I had ever done before. Not that I was in love with Miss Mayton; a man may honestly and strongly admire a handsome, brilliant woman without being in love with her; he can delight himself in trying to give her pleasure, without feeling it necessary that she shall give him herself in return. Since I arrived at years of discretion I have always smiled sarcastically at the mention of the generosity of men who were in love; they have seemed to me rather to be asking an immense price for what they offered. I had no such feeling toward Miss Mayton. There have been heathens who have offered gifts to goddesses out of pure adoration and without any idea of ever having the exclusive companionship of their favorite divinities. I never offered Miss Mayton any attention which did not put me into closer sympathy with these same great-souled old Pagans; and with such Christians as follow their good example. With each new grace my bouquet took on, my pleasure and satisfaction increased at the thought of how _she_ would enjoy the completed evidence of my taste.

At length it was finished, but my delight suddenly became clouded by the dreadful thought, “What will folks say?” Had we been in New York instead of Hillcrest, no one but the florist, his messenger, the lady and myself would know if I sent a bouquet to Miss Mayton; but in Hillcrest, with its several hundred native-born gossips, and its acquaintance of everybody with everybody else and their affairs—I feared talk. Upon the discretion of Mike, the coachman, I could safely rely; I had already confidentially conveyed sundry bits of fractional currency to him, and informed him of one of the parties at our store whose family Mike had known in Old Erin; but every one knew where Mike was employed; every one knew—mysterious, unseen and swift are the ways of communication in the country!—that I was the only gentleman at present residing at Colonel Lawrence’s. Ah!—I had it. I had seen in one of the library drawers a small pasteboard box, shaped like a bandbox—doubtless _that_ would hold it. I found the box—it was of just the size I needed. I dropped my card into the bottom—no danger of a lady not finding the card accompanying a gift of flowers—neatly fitted the bouquet in the center of the box, and went in search of Mike. He winked cheeringly as I explained the nature of his errand, and he whispered:—

“I’ll do it as clane as a whistle, yer honor. Mistress Clarkson’s cook an’ mesilf understhand each other, an’ I’m used to goin’ up the back way. Dhivil a man can see but the angels, an’ they won’t tell.”

“Very well, Mike; here’s a dollar for you; you’ll find the box on the hat-rack, in the hall.”

Half an hour later, while I sat in my chamber window, reading, I beheld Mike, cleanly shaved, dressed and brushed, swinging up the road, with my box balanced on one of his enormous hands. With a head full of pleasing fancies, I went down to supper. My new friends were unusually good. Their ride seemed to have toned down their boisterousness and elevated their little souls; their appetites exhibited no diminution of force, but they talked but little, and all that they said was smart, funny, or startling—so much so that when, after supper, they invited me to put them to bed, I gladly accepted the invitation. Toddie disappeared somewhere, and came back very disconsolate.

“I can’t find my dolly’s k’adle,” he whined.

“Never mind, old pet,” said I, soothingly. “Uncle will ride you on his foot.”

“But I _want_ my dolly’s k’adle,” said he, piteously rolling out his lower lip.

I remembered my experience when Toddie wanted to “shee wheels go wound,” and I trembled.

“Toddie,” said I, in a tone so persuasive that it would be worth thousands a year to me, as a salesman, if I could only command it at will; “Toddie, don’t you want to ride on uncle’s back?”

“No; want my dolly’s k’adle.”

“Don’t you want me to tell you a story?”

For a moment Toddie’s face indicated a terrible internal conflict between old Adam and mother Eve, but curiosity finally overpowered natural depravity, and Toddie murmured:—Yesh.”

“What shall I tell you about?”

”’Bout Nawndeark.”

“About _what_?”

“He means Noah an’ the ark,” exclaimed Budge.

“Datsh what _I_ shay—Nawndeark,” declared Toddie.

“Well,” said I, hastily refreshing my memory by picking up the Bible,—for Helen, like most people, is pretty sure to forget to pack her Bible when she runs away from home for a few days,—“well, once it rained forty days and nights, and everybody was drowned from the face of the earth excepting Noah, a righteous man, who was saved with all his family, in an ark which the Lord commanded him to build.”

“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, after contemplating me with open eyes and mouth for at least two minutes after I had finished, “do you think that’s Noah?”

“Certainly, Budge; here’s the whole story in the Bible.”

“Well, _I_ don’t think it’s Noah one single bit,” said he, with increasing emphasis.

“I’m beginning to think we read different Bibles, Budge; but let’s hear _your_ version.”

“Huh?”

“Tell _me_ about Noah, if you know so much about him.”

“I will, if you want me to. Once the Lord felt so uncomfortable ’cos folks was bad that he was sorry he ever made anybody, or any world or anything. But Noah wasn’t bad—the Lord liked him first-rate, so he told Noah to build a big ark, and then the Lord would make it rain so everybody should be drownded but Noah an’ his little boys an’ girls, an’ doggies, an’ pussies, an’ mamma cows, an’ little-boy cows, an’ little-girl cows, an’ hosses, an’ everything—they’d go in the ark an’ wouldn’t get wetted a bit, when it rained. An’ Noah took lots of things to eat in the ark—cookies an’ milk, an’ oatmeal an’ strawberries, an’ porgies an’—oh, yes; an’ plum puddin’s an’ pumpkin pies. But Noah didn’t want everybody to get drownded, so he talked to folks an’ said, ‘It’s goin’ to rain _awful_ pretty soon; you’d better be good, an’ then the Lord’ll let you come into my ark.” An’ they jus’ said ‘Oh, if it rains we’ll go in the house till it stops’; an’ other folks said, ‘_We_ ain’t afraid of rain—we’ve got an umbrella.’ An’ some more said, they wasn’t goin’ to be afraid of just a rain. But it _did_ rain, though, an’ folks went in their houses an’ the water came in, an’ they got on the tops of the houses, an’ up in big trees, an’ up in mountains, an’ the water went after ’em everywhere an’ drownded everybody, only just except Noah and the people in the ark. An’ it rained forty days an’ nights, an’ then it stopped, an’ Noah got out of the ark, an’ he an’ his little boys an’ girls went wherever they wanted to, an’ everything in the world was all theirs; there wasn’t anybody to tell ’em to go home, nor no Kindergarten schools to go to, nor no bad boys to fight ’em, nor nothin’. Now tell us ’nother story.”

I determined that I would not again attempt to repeat portions of the Scripture narrative—my experience in that direction had not been encouraging. I ventured upon a war story.

“Do you know what the war was?” I asked, by way of reconnoissance.

“Oh, yes,” said Budge, “papa was there an’ he’s got a sword; don’t you see it, hangin’ up there?”

Yes, I saw it, and the difference between the terrible field where last I saw Tom’s sword in action, and this quiet room where it now hung, forced me into a reverie from which I was aroused by Budge remarking:—

“Ain’t you goin’ to tell us one?”

“Oh, yes, Budge. One day while the war was going on, there was a whole lot of soldiers going along a road, and they were hungry as they could be; they hadn’t had anything to eat that day.”

“Why didn’t they go into the houses, and tell the people they was hungry? That’s what _I_ do when I goes along roads.”

“Because the people in that country didn’t like them; the brothers and papas and husbands of those people were soldiers, too; but they didn’t like the soldiers I told you about first, and they wanted to kill them.”

“I don’t think they were a bit nice,” said Budge, with considerable decision.

“Well, the first soldiers wanted to kill _them_, Budge.”

“Then they was _all_ bad, to want to kill each other.”

“Oh no, they weren’t; there were a great many real good men on both sides.”

Poor Budge looked sadly puzzled, as he had an excellent right to do, since the wisest and best men are sorely perplexed by the nature of warlike feeling.

“Both parties of soldiers were on horseback,” I continued, “and they were near each other, and when they saw each other they made their horses run fast, and the bugles blew, and the soldiers all took their swords out to kill each other with. Just then a little boy, who had been out in the woods to pick berries for his mamma, tried to run across the road, and caught his toe some way, and fell down and cried. Then somebody hallooed ‘Halt!’ very loud, and all the horses on one side stopped, and then somebody else hallooed ‘Halt!’ and a lot of bugles blew, and every horse on the other side stopped, and one soldier jumped off his horse, and picked up the little boy—he was only about as big as you, Budge—and tried to comfort him, and then a soldier from the other side came up to look at him; and then more soldiers came from both sides to look at him; and when he got better and walked home, the soldiers all rode away, because they didn’t feel like fighting just then.”

“O Uncle Harry! I think it was an _awful_ good soldier that got off his horse to take care of that poor little boy.”

“Do you, Budge? who do you think it was?”

“I dunno.”

“It was your papa.”

“Oh—h—h—h—h!” If Tom could have but seen the expression upon his boy’s face as he prolonged this exclamation, his loss of one of the grandest chances a cavalry officer ever had would not have seemed so great to him as it had done for years. He seemed to take in the story in all its bearings, and his great eyes grew in depth as they took on the far-away look which seemed too earnest for the strength of an earthly being to support.

But Toddie—he who a fond mamma thought endowed with art sense—Toddie had throughout my recital the air of a man who was musing on some affair of his own, and Budge’s exclamation had hardly died away, when Toddie commenced to weave aloud an extravaganza wholly his own.

“When _I_ was a soldier,” he remarked, very gravely, “I had a coat an’ a hat on, an’ a muff, an’ a little knake[5] wound my neck to keep me warm, an’ it wained, an’ hailed, an’ ’tormed, an’ I felt bad, so I whallowed a sword an’ burned me all down dead.”

[5] Snake: tippet.

“And how did you get here?” I asked, with interest proportioned to the importance of Toddie’s last clause.

“Oh, I got up from the burn-down dead, an’ _comed_ right here. I want my dolly’s k’adle.”

O persistent little dragon! If you were of age, what a fortune you might make in business!

“Uncle Harry, I wish my papa would come home right away,” said Budge.

“Why, Budge?”

“I want to love him for bein’ so good to that poor little boy in the war.”

“Ocken Hawwy, I wants my dolly’s k’adle, ’tause my dolly’s in it, an’ I want to shee her”; thus spake Toddie.

“Don’t you think the Lord loved my papa awful much for doin’ that sweet thing, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge.

“Yes, old fellow, I feel sure that he did.”

“Lord lovesh my papa vewy much, so I love ze Lord vewy much,” remarked Toddie. “An’ I wants my dolly’s k’adle an’ my dolly.”

“Toddie, I don’t know where either of them are—I can’t find them now—_do_ wait until morning, when Uncle Harry will look for them.”

“I don’t see how the Lord can get along in heaven without my papa, Uncle Harry,” said Budge.

“Lord takesh papa to heaven, an’ Budge an’ me, and we’ll go walkin’ an’ see ze Lord, an play wif ze angels’ wings, an hazh good timsh, an’ never have to go to bed at all, at all.”

Pure-hearted little innocents! compared with older people whom we endure, how great thy faith and how few thy faults! How superior thy love——

A knock at the door interrupted me. “Come in!” I shouted.

In stepped Mike, with an air of the greatest secrecy, handed me a letter and the identical box in which I had sent the flowers to Miss Mayton. What _could_ it mean? I hastily opened the envelope, and at the same time Toddie shrieked:—

“Oh, darsh my dolly’s k’adle—dare tizh!” snatched and opened the box, and displayed—his doll! My heart sickened, and did _not_ regain its strength during the perusal of the following note:—

“Miss Mayton herewith returns to Mr. Burton the package which just arrived, with his card. She recognizes the contents as a portion of the apparent property of one of Mr. Burton’s nephews, but is unable to understand why it should have been sent to her.

“JUNE 20, 1875.”

“Toddie,” I roared, as my younger nephew caressed his loathsome doll, and murmured endearing words to it, “where did you get that box?”

“On the hat-wack,” replied the youth, with perfect fearlessness. “I keeps it in ze book-case djawer, and somebody took it ’way, and put nasty ole flowers in it.”

“Where are those flowers?” I demanded.

Toddie looked up with considerable surprise, but promptly replied:—

“I froed ’em away—don’t want no ole flowers in my dolly’s k’adle. That’s ze way she wocks—see!” And the horrible little destroyer of human hopes rolled that box back and forth with the most utter unconcern, as he spoke endearing words to the substitute for my beautiful bouquet!

To say that I looked at Toddie reprovingly is to express my feelings in the most inadequate language, but of language in which to express my feelings to Toddie, I could find absolutely none. Within two or three short moments I had discovered how very anxious I really was to merit Miss Mayton’s regard, and how very different was the regard I wanted from that which I had previously hoped might be accorded me. It seemed too ridiculous to be true that I, who had for years had dozens of charming lady acquaintances, and yet had always maintained my common sense and self-control; I, who had always considered it unmanly for a man to specially interest himself in _any_ lady until he had an income of five thousand a year; I, who had skilfully, and many times, argued that life attachments, or attempts thereat, which were made without a careful preliminary study of the mental characteristics of the partner desired, were the most unpardonable folly,—_I_ had transgressed every one of my own rules, and, as if to mock me for any pretended wisdom and care, my weakness was made known to me by a three-year-old marplot and a hideous rag doll!

That merciful and ennobling dispensation by which Providence enables us to temper the severity of our own sufferings by alleviating those of others, came soon to my rescue. Under my stern glance, Toddie gradually lost interest in his doll and its cradle, and began to thrust forth and outward his piteous lower lip, and to weep copiously.

“Dee Lord not make me sho bad,” he cried through his tears. I doubt his having had any very clear idea of what he was saying, or whom he was addressing; but had the publican of whose prayer Toddie made so fair a paraphrase worn such a face when he offered his famous petition, it could not have been denied for a moment. Toddie even retired to a corner, and hid his face in self-imposed penance.

“Never mind, Toddie,” said I sadly; “you didn’t mean to do it, I know.”

“I wantsh to love you,” sobbed Toddie.

“Well, come here, you poor little fellow,” said I, opening my arms, and wondering whether ’twas not after contemplation of some such sinner that good Bishop Tegner wrote:—

“Depths of love are atonement’s depths, for love is atonement.”

Toddie came to my arms, shed tears freely upon my shirt-front, and finally, after heaving a very long sigh, remarked:—

“Wantsh _you_ to love _me_.”