[Illustration: Woman, Man, and two children]
HELEN’S BABIES
_by_
JOHN HABBERTON
_Illustrated by_
Tod Dwiggins
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP
_HELEN’S BABIES_
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
Dedication
Everyone knows that there are, in the World, hundreds of thousands of
fathers and mothers, each one of whom possesses the best children that
ever lived. I am, therefore, moved by a sense of the eternal fitness of
things to dedicate this little volume to
The Parents of the
Best Children in the World
with the reminder that it is considered the proper thing for each
person, to whom a book is dedicated, to purchase and read a copy.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Page_
“We Call ’Em the Imps” 5
“Here’s My Grass-Cutter” 7
“Wheels Go Wound” 11
“I Believe You Arranged the Floral Decorations” 15
Dropping Them Into the Bathtub 17
Budge’s Idea of Jonah and the Whale 25
“We Hope He’s Got Lots of Candy” 29
I Encountered a Door Ajar 35
The Dolly Found 37
“Papa Don’t Whip Us With Sticks” 41
An Amateur in Packing 45
“I Hunged Over More Than Toddie Did” 58
“We’ve Got an Umbrella” 67
“When I Was a Soldier,” Remarked Toddie 71
“Kish My Dolly, Too” 79
Two Little Savages 85
My Nephew Budge In His Best 91
Putting an Extension on the Afternoon 97
“I Was All Ate Up By a Lion” 103
Toddie Investigating a Hornet’s Nest 109
“But Let’s Hurry Home” 113
“Oo-Ee! Zha Turtle On My Plate” 125
Acting Upon Budge’s Suggestion 133
To Skip All Love Talk in Novels 139
The Goat, the Carriage, and the Boys 143
“An’ Wawtoo to Make Mud-Pies” 151
“Wantsh Dancin’ Tune” 157
Two Great Hands Seized Toddie 163
“He’s Got a Dead Mouse to be Jonah Now” 165
Holding Over His Head a Ragged Umbrella 177
“I Didn’t Hurt De ’Ittle Mousie” 181
A Tribute to Mothers 185
I Shouted “Hurrah” 191
Two Clouds Go Bump Into Each Other 199
“Can’t You Be a Whay-al?” 203
“Azh Wadiant Azh ze Matchless Wose” 213
Mrs Mayton Stooped to Pick Up Her Glasses 219
Made Him Awful Sick 225
“The Sun’ll Be Disappointed If It Don’t Have Us
to Look At” 231
Galloping Furiously to the Village 235
Mike Telling Maggie to Get Lunch 237
HELEN’S BABIES
The first cause, so far as it can be determined, of the existence of
this book may be found in the following letter, written by my only
married sister, and received by me, Harry Burton, salesman of white
goods, bachelor, aged twenty-eight, and received just as I was trying
to decide where I should spend a fortnight’s vacation:
“HILLCREST, June 15, 1875.
“DEAR HARRY:—Remembering that you are always complaining that you
never have a chance to read, and knowing you won’t get it this summer,
if you spend your vacation among people of your own set, I write to
ask you to come up here. I admit that I am not wholly disinterested in
inviting you. The truth is, Tom and I are invited to spend a fortnight
with my old school-mate, Alice Wayne, who, you know, is the dearest
girl in the world, though you _didn’t_ obey me and marry her before
Frank Wayne appeared. Well, we’re dying to go, for Alice and Frank
live in splendid style; but as they haven’t included our children in
their invitation, and have no children of their own, we must leave
Budge and Toddie at home. I’ve no doubt they’ll be perfectly safe, for
my girl is a jewel, and devoted to the children, but I would feel a
great deal easier if there was a man in the house. Besides, there’s
the silver, and burglars are less likely to break into a house where
there’s a savage-looking man. (Never mind about thanking me for the
compliment.) If _you’ll_ only come up, my mind will be completely at
rest. The children won’t give you the slightest trouble; they’re the
best children in the world—everybody says so.
“Tom has plenty of cigars, I know, for the money I should have had
for a new suit went to pay his cigar-man. He has some new claret,
too, that _he_ goes into ecstasies over, though _I_ can’t tell it
from the vilest black ink, except by the color. Our horses are in
splendid condition, and so is the garden—you see I don’t forget your
old passion for flowers. And, last and best, there never were so many
handsome girls at Hillcrest as there are among the summer boarders
already here; the girls you are already acquainted with here will see
that you meet all the newer acquisitions.
“Reply by telegraph right away. Of course you’ll say ‘Yes.’
“In great haste, your loving
“SISTER HELEN.
“P.S.—You shall have our own chamber; it catches every breeze, and
commands the finest views. The children’s room communicates with it;
so, if anything _should_ happen to the darlings at night, you’ll be
sure to hear them.”
“Just the thing!” I ejaculated. Five minutes later I had telegraphed
Helen my acceptance of her invitation, and had mentally selected books
enough to busy me during a dozen vacations. Without sharing Helen’s
belief that her boys were the best ones in the world, I knew them well
enough to feel assured that they would not give me any annoyance. There
were two of them, since Baby Phil died last fall; Budge, the elder,
was five years of age, and had generally, during my flying visits to
Helen, worn a shy, serious, meditative, noble face, with great, pure,
penetrating eyes, that made me almost fear their stare. Tom declared he
was a born philanthropist or prophet, and Helen made so free with Miss
Mulock’s lines as to sing:
“Ah, the day that _thou_ goest a wooing,
Budgie, my boy!”
Toddie had seen but three summers, and was a happy little know-nothing,
with a head full of tangled yellow hair, and a very pretty fancy for
finding out sunbeams and dancing in them. I had long envied Tom
his horses, his garden, his house and his location, and the idea of
controlling them for a fortnight was particularly delightful. Tom’s
taste in cigars and claret I had always respected, while the lady
inhabitants of Hillcrest were, according to my memory, much like those
of every other suburban village—the fairest of their sex.
Three days later I made the hour and a half trip between New York and
Hillcrest, and hired a hackman to drive me over to Tom’s. Half a mile
from my brother-in-law’s residence, our horses shied violently, and the
driver, after talking freely to them, turned to me and remarked:
“That was one of the ‘Imps.’”
“What was?” I asked.
“That little cuss that scared the hosses. There he is, now, holdin’ up
that piece of brushwood. ’Twould be just like his cheek, now, to ask me
to let him ride. Here he comes, runnin’. Wonder where t’other is?—they
most generally travel together. We call ’em the Imps, about these
parts, because they’re so uncommon likely at mischief. Always skeerin’
hosses, or chasin’ cows, ro frightenin’ chickens. Nice enough father
an’ mother, too—queer, how young ones do turn out!”
[Illustration: “WE CALL ’EM THE IMPS”]
As he spoke, the offending youth came panting beside our carriage, and
in a very dirty sailor-suit, and under a broad-brimmed straw hat, with
one stocking about his ankle, and two shoes averaging about two buttons
each, I recognized my nephew, Budge! About the same time there emerged
from the bushes by the roadside a smaller boy, in a green gingham
dress, a ruffle which might once have been white, dirty stockings,
blue slippers worn through at the toes, and an old-fashioned straw
turban. Thrusting into the dust of the road a branch from a bush, and
shouting, “Here’s my grass-cutter!” he ran toward us enveloped in a
“pillar of cloud,” which might have served the purpose of Israel in
Egypt. When we paused, and the dust had somewhat subsided, I beheld the
unmistakable lineaments of the child Toddie!
“They’re—my nephews,” I gasped.
“What!” exclaimed the driver. “By gracious! I forgot you were going to
Colonel Lawrence’s! I didn’t tell anything but the truth about ’em,
though; they’re smart enough, an’ good enough, as boys go; but they’d
never die of the complaint that children has in Sunday-school books.”
“Budge,” said I, with all the sternness I could command, “do you know
me?”
The searching eyes of the embryo prophet and philanthropist scanned me
for a moment, then their owner replied:
“Yes, you’re Uncle Harry. Did you bring us anything?”
“Bring us anything?” echoed Toddie.
“I wish I could have brought you some big whippings,” said I, with
great severity of manner, “for behaving so badly. Get into this
carriage.”
“Come on, Tod,” shouted Budge, although Toddie’s farther ear was not a
yard from Budge’s mouth, “Uncle Harry’s going to take us riding!”
[Illustration: “HERE’S MY GRASS-CUTTER”]
“Going to take us riding!” echoed Toddie, with the air of one in
a reverie; both the echo and the reverie I soon learned were
characteristics of Toddie.
As they clambered into the carriage I noticed that each one carried
a very dirty towel, knotted in the center into what is known as a
slip-noose knot, drawn very tight. After some moments of disgusted
contemplation of these rags, without being in the least able to
comprehend their purpose, I asked Budge what those towels were for.
“They’re not towels—they’re dollies,” promptly answered my nephew.
“Goodness!” I exclaimed. “I should think your mother could buy you
respectable dolls, and not let you appear in public with those
loathsome rags.”
“We don’t like buyed dollies,” explained Budge. “These dollies is
lovely; mine’s name is Mary, an’ Toddie’s is Marfa.”
“Marfa?” I queried.
“Yes; don’t you know about
‘Marfa and Mary’s jus’ gone along
To ring dem charmin’ bells,’
that them Jubilees sings about?”
“Oh, Martha, you mean?”
“Yes, Marfa—that’s what I say. Toddie’s dolly’s got brown eyes, an’ my
dolly’s got blue eyes.”
“I want to shee yours watch,” remarked Toddie, snatching at my chain,
and rolling into my lap.
“Oh—oo—ee, so do I,” shouted Budge, hastening to occupy one knee, and
_in transitu_ wiping his shoes on my trousers and the skirts of my
coat. Each imp put an arm about me to steady himself, as I produced my
three-hundred dollar time-keeper, and showed them the dial.
“I want to see the wheels go round,” said Budge.
“Want to shee wheels go wound,” echoed Toddie.
“No; I can’t open my watch where there’s so much dust,” I said.
“What for?” inquired Budge.
“Want to shee the wheels go wound,” repeated Toddie.
“The dust gets inside the watch and spoils it,” I explained.
“Want to shee the wheels go wound,” said Toddie, once more.
“I tell you I can’t, Toddie,” said I, with considerable asperity. “Dust
spoils watches.”
The innocent gray eyes looked up wonderingly, the dirty but pretty lips
parted slightly, and Toddie murmured:—
“Want to shee the wheels go wound.”
I abruptly closed my watch, and put it into my pocket. Instantly
Toddie’s lower lip commenced to turn outward, and continued to do so,
until I seriously feared the bony portion of his chin would be exposed
to view. Then his lower jaw dropped, and he cried:—
“Ah—h—h—h—h—h—want—to—shee—the wheels—go wou—_ound_.”
“Charles” (Charles is his baptismal name),—“Charles,” I exclaimed, with
some anger, “stop that noise this instant! Do you hear me?”
“Yes—oo—oo—oo—ahoo—ahoo.”
“Then stop it.”
“Wants to shee——”
“Toddie, I’ve got some candy in my trunk, but I won’t give you a bit if
you don’t stop that infernal noise.”
“Well, I wants to shee wheels go wound. Ah—ah—h—h—h—h!”
“Toddie, dear, don’t cry so. Here’s some ladies coming in a carriage;
you wouldn’t let _them_ see you crying, would you? You shall see the
wheels go round as soon as we get home.”
[Illustration: “WHEELS GO WOUND”]
A carriage containing a couple of ladies was rapidly approaching, as
Toddie again raised his voice.
“Ah—h—h—want’s to shee wheels——”
Madly I snatched my watch from my pocket, opened the case, and exposed
the works to view. The other carriage was passing ours, and I dropped
my head to avoid meeting the glance of the unknown occupants, for
my few moments of contact with my dreadful nephews had made me feel
inexpressibly unneat. Suddenly the carriage with the ladies stopped. I
heard my own name spoken, and, raising my head quickly (encountering
Budge’s bullet head _en route_, to the serious disarrangement of my
hat), I looked into the other carriage. There, erect, fresh, neat,
composed, bright-eyed, fair-faced, smiling and observant,—she would
have been all this, even if the angel of the resurrection had just
sounded his dreadful trump,—sat Miss Alice Mayton, a lady who, for
about a year, I had been adoring from afar.
“When did _you_ arrive, Mr. Burton?” she asked, “and how long have you
been officiating as child’s companion? You’re certainly a happy-looking
trio—so unconventional. I hate to see children all dressed up and stiff
as little manikins, when they go out to ride. And you look as if you’d
been having _such_ a good time with them.”
“I—I assure you, Miss Mayton,” said I, “that my experience has been
the exact reverse of a pleasant one. If King Herod were yet alive I’d
volunteer as an executioner, and engage to deliver two interesting
corpses at a moment’s notice.”
“You dreadful wretch!” exclaimed the lady. “Mother, let me make you
acquainted with Mr. Burton, Helen Lawrence’s brother. How is your
sister, Mr. Burton?”
“I don’t know,” I replied; “she has gone with her husband on a
fortnight’s visit to Captain and Mrs. Wayne, and I’ve been silly enough
to promise to have an eye to the place while they’re away.”
“Why, how delightful!” exclaimed Miss Mayton. “_Such_ horses! _Such_
flowers! _Such_ a cook!”
“And such children,” said I, glaring suggestively at the imps, and
rescuing from Toddie a handkerchief which he had extracted from my
pocket, and was waving to the breeze.
“Why, they’re the best children in the world. Helen told me so the
first time I met her this season. Children will be children, you know.
We had three little cousins with us last summer, and I’m sure they made
me look years older than I really am.”
“How young you must be, then, Miss Mayton!” said I. I suppose I looked
at her as if I meant what I said, for although she inclined her head
and said, “Oh, thank you,” she didn’t seem to turn my compliment off
in her usual invulnerable style. Nothing happening in the course of
conversation ever discomposed Alice Mayton for more than a hundred
seconds, however, so she soon recovered her usual expression and
self-command, as her next remark fully indicated.
“I believe you arranged the floral decorations at the St. Zephaniah’s
Fair, last winter, Mr. Burton? ’Twas the most tasteful display of the
season. I don’t wish to give any hints, but at Mrs. Clarkson’s, where
we’re boarding, there’s not a flower in the whole garden. I break
the Tenth Commandment dreadfully every time I pass Colonel Lawrence’s
garden. Good-by, Mr. Burton.”
[Illustration: “I BELIEVE YOU ARRANGED THE FLORAL DECORATIONS”]
“Ah, thank you; I shall be delighted. Good-by.”
“Of course you’ll call,” said Miss Mayton, as her carriage started.
“It’s dreadfully stupid here—no men except on Sundays.”
I bowed assent. In the contemplation of all the shy possibilities which
my short chat with Miss Mayton had suggested, I had quite forgotten
my dusty clothing and the two living causes thereof. While in Miss
Mayton’s presence the imps had preserved perfect silence, but now their
tongues were loosened.
“Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “do you know how to make whistles?”
“Unken Hawwy,” murmured Toddie, “does you love dat lady?”
“No, Toddie, of course not.”
“Then you’s a baddy man, an’ de Lord won’t let you go to heaven if you
don’t love peoples.”
“Yes, Budge,” I answered hastily, “I _do_ know how to make whistles,
and you shall have one.”
“Lord don’t like mans what don’t love peoples,” reiterated Toddie.
“All right, Toddie,” said I. “I’ll see if I can’t please the Lord
some way. Driver, whip up, won’t you? I’m in a hurry to turn these
youngsters over to the girl, and ask her to drop them into the
bath-tub.”
[Illustration: DROPPING THEM INTO THE BATHTUB]
I found Helen had made every possible arrangement for my comfort. Her
room commanded exquisite views of mountain slope and valley, and even
the fact that the imps’ bedroom adjoined mine gave me comfort, for I
thought of the pleasure of contemplating them while they were asleep,
and beyond the power of tormenting their deluded uncle.
At the supper-table Budge and Toddie appeared cleanly clothed and in
their rightful faces. Budge seated himself at the table; Toddie pushed
back his high-chair, climbed into it, and shouted:—
“Put my legs under ze tabo!”
Rightfully construing this remark as a request to be moved to the
table, I fulfilled his desire. The girl poured tea for me and milk
for the children, and retired; and then I remembered, to my dismay,
that Helen never had a servant in the dining-room, except upon grand
occasions, her idea being that servants retail to their friends the
cream of the private conversation of the family circle. In principle
I agreed with her, but the penalty of the practical application, with
these two little cormorants on my hands, was greater suffering than any
I had ever been called upon to endure for principle’s sake; but there
was no help for it. I resignedly rapped on the table, bowed my head,
said, “For what we are about to receive, the Lord make us thankful,”
and asked Budge whether he ate bread or biscuit.
“Why, we ain’t asked no blessin’ yet,” said he.
“Yes, I did, Budge,” said I. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Do you mean what you said just now?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t think that was no blessin’ at all. Papa never says that
kind of a blessin’.”
“What does papa say, may I ask?” I inquired, with becoming meekness.
“Why, papa says, ’Our Father, we thank thee for this food; mercifully
remember with us all the hungry and needy to-day, for Christ’s sake,
Amen.’ That’s what he says.”
“It means the same thing, Budge.”
“_I_ don’t think it does; and Toddie didn’t have no time to say _his_
blessin’. I don’t think the Lord’ll like it if you do it that way.”
“Yes, He will, old boy; He knows what people mean.”
“Well, how can he tell what Toddie means if Toddie can’t say anything?”
“Wantsh to shay my blessin’,” whined Toddie.
It was enough; my single encounter with Toddie had taught me to respect
the young gentleman’s force of character. So again I bowed my head
and repeated what Budge had reported as “papa’s blessin’,” Budge
kindly prompting me where my memory failed. The moment I began, Toddie
commenced to jabber rapidly and aloud, and the instant the “Amen” was
pronounced he raised his head and remarked with evident satisfaction:—
“I shed my blessin’ _two_ timesh.”
And Budge said gravely: “_Now_ I guess we’re all right.”
The supper was an exquisite one, but the appetites of those dreadful
children effectually prevented my enjoying the repast. I hastily
retired, called the girl, and instructed her to see that the children
had enough to eat, and were put to bed immediately after; then I lit a
cigar and strolled into the garden. The roses were just in bloom, the
air was full of the perfume of honeysuckles, the rhododendrons had not
disappeared, while I saw promise of the early unfolding of many other
pet flowers of mine. I confess that I took a careful survey of the
garden to see how fine a bouquet I might make for Miss Mayton, and
was so abundantly satisfied with the material before me that I longed
to begin the work at once, but that it would seem too hasty for true
gentility. So I paced the paths, my hands behind my back, and my face
well hidden by fragrant clouds of smoke, and went into wondering and
reveries. I wondered if there was any sense in the language of flowers,
of which I had occasionally seen mention made by silly writers; I
wished I had learned it if it had any meaning; I wondered if Miss
Mayton understood it. At any rate, I fancied I could arrange flowers to
the taste of any lady whose face I had ever seen; and for Alice Mayton
I would make something so superb that her face could not help lighting
up when she beheld it. I imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would
brighten, her cheeks would redden,—not with sentiment, not a bit of
it, but with genuine pleasure,—how her strong lips would part slightly
and disclose sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well
in hand. I—I, a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of white
goods—actually wished I might be divested of all nineteenth-century
abilities and characteristics, and be one of those fairies that only
silly girls and crazy poets think of, and might, unseen, behold the
meeting of my flowers with this highly cultivated specimen of the only
sort of flowers our cities produce. What flower did she most resemble?
A lily?—no; too—not exactly too bold, but too—too, well, I couldn’t
think of the word, but clearly it wasn’t bold. A rose? Certainly,
not like those glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the
shy, delicate, ethereal tea roses with their tender suggestions of
color. Like this perfect Gloire de Dijon, perhaps; strong, vigorous,
self-asserting, among its more delicate sisterhood; yet shapely,
perfect in outline and development, exquisite, enchanting in its never
fully analyzed tints, yet compelling the admiration of everyone, and
recalling its admirers again and again by the unspoken appeal of its
own perfection—its unvarying radiance.
“Ah—h—h—h—ee—ee—ee—ee—ee—oo —oo—oo—oo!” came from the window over my
head. Then came a shout of—“Uncle Harry!” in a voice I recognized as
that of Budge. I made no reply: there are moments when the soul is full
of utterances unfit to be heard by childish ears. “Uncle Har_ray_!”
repeated Budge. Then I heard a window blind open, and Budge exclaiming:—
“Uncle Harry, we want you to come and tell us stories.”
I turned my eyes upward quickly, and was about to send a savage
negative in the same direction, when I saw in the window a face unknown
and yet remembered. Could those great, wistful eyes, that angelic
mouth, that spiritual expression, belong to my nephew Budge? Yes, it
must be certainly that super-celestial nose and those enormous ears
never belonged to anyone else. I turned abruptly, and entered the
house, and was received at the head of the stairway by two little
figures in white, the larger of which remarked:—
“We want you to tell us stories—papa always does nights.”
“Very well, jump into bed—what kind of stories do you like?”
“Oh, ’bout Jonah,” said Budge.
”’Bout Jonah,” echoed Toddie.
“Well, Jonah was out in the sun one day, and a gourd-vine grew up all
of a sudden, and made it nice and shady for him, and then it all faded
as quick as it came.”
A dead silence prevailed for a moment, and then Budge indignantly
remarked:
“That ain’t Jonah a bit—_I_ know ’bout Jonah.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said I. “Then maybe you’ll be so good as to
enlighten me?”
“Huh?”
“If you know about Jonah, tell me the story; I’d really enjoy listening
to it.”
“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.”
[Illustration: BUDGE’S IDEA OF JONAH AND THE WHALE]
“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.”
[Illustration: “WE HOPE HE’S GOT LOTS OF CANDY”]
“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.”
[Illustration: I ENCOUNTERED A DOOR AJAR]
“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.
[Illustration: THE DOLLY FOUND]
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.”
[Illustration: “PAPA DON’T WHIP US WITH STICKS”]
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.”
[Illustration: AN AMATEUR IN PACKING]
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!”
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.”