“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.”
[Illustration: “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:—
[Illustration: “WE’VE GOT AN UMBRELLA”]
“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.”
[Illustration: “WHEN I WAS A SOLDIER,” REMARKED TODDIE]
“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_.”
I complied with his request. Theoretically I had long believed
that the higher wisdom of the Creator was most frequently expressed
through the medium of his most innocent creations. Surely here was a
confirmation of my theory, for who else had ever practically taught
me the duty of the injured one toward his offender? I kissed Toddie
and petted him, and at length succeeded in quieting him; his little
face, in spite of much dirt and many tear-stains, was upturned with
more of beauty in it than it ever held when its owner was full of joy;
he looked earnestly, confidingly, into my eyes, and I congratulated
myself upon the perfection of my forgiving spirit, when Toddie suddenly
re-exhibited to me my old unregenerate nature, and the incompleteness
of my forgiveness, by saying:—
“Kish my dolly, too.”
[Illustration: “KISH MY DOLLY, TOO”]
I obeyed. My forgiveness was made complete, but so was my humiliation.
I abruptly closed our interview. We exchanged “God bless you’s,”
according to Budge’s instructions of the previous night, and at
least one of the participants in this devotional exercise hoped the
petitions made by the other were distinctly heard. Then I dropped into
an easy-chair in the library, and fell to thinking. I found myself
really and seriously troubled by the results of Toddie’s operation with
my bouquet. I might explain the matter to Miss Mayton—I undoubtedly
could, for she was too sensible a woman to be easily offended merely
by a ridiculous mistake, caused by a child. But she would laugh at
_me_—how could she help it?—and to be laughed at by Miss Mayton was
a something, the mere thought of which tormented me in a manner that
made me fairly ashamed of myself. Like every other young man among
young men, I had been the butt of many a rough joke, and had borne them
without wincing; it seemed cowardly and contemptible that I should be
so sensitive under the mere thought of laughter which would probably
be heard by no one but Miss Mayton herself. But the laughter of a
mere acquaintance is likely to lessen respect for the person laughed
at. Heavens! the thought was unendurable! At any rate, I must write
an early apology. When I was correspondent for the house with which
I am now salesman, I reclaimed many an old customer who had wandered
off—certainly I might hope, by a well-written letter, to regain in Miss
Mayton’s respect whatever position I had lost. I hastily drafted a
letter, corrected it carefully, copied it in due form, and forwarded
it by the faithful Michael. Then I tried to read, but without the least
success. For hours I paced the piazza and consumed cigars; when at last
I retired it was with many ideas, hopes, fears, and fancies which had
never before been mine. True to my trust, I looked into my nephews’
room; there lay the boys, in postures more graceful than any which
brush or chisel have ever reproduced. Toddie, in particular, wore so
lovely an expression that I could not refrain from kissing him. But I
was none the less careful to make use of my new key, and to lock my
other door also.