certain what to say about your boys. I confess that until now I have
been blind to some of their virtues, and have imagined I detected an
occasional fault. But the scales have fallen from my eyes, and I see
clearly that my nephews are angels—positively angels. If I seem to
speak extravagantly, I beg to refer you to Alice Mayton for collateral
evidence. Don’t come home at all—everything is just as it should
be—even if you come, I guess I’ll invite myself to spend the rest of
the summer with you; I’ve changed my mind about its being a bore to
live out of town and take trains back and forth every day. Ask Tom
to think over such bits of real estate in your neighborhood as he
imagines I might like.
“I repeat it, the boys are angels, and Alice Mayton is another, while
the happiest man in the white goods trade is
“Your affectionate brother
“HARRY.”
Early next morning I sought the society of my nephews. It was
absolutely necessary that I should overflow to _some_ one—some one
who was sympathetic and innocent and pure. I longed for my sister—my
mother, but to _some_ one I must talk at once. Budge fulfilled my
requirements exactly; he was an excellent listener, very sympathetic by
nature, and quick to respond. Not the wisdom of the most reverend sage
alive could have been so grateful to my ear as that child’s prattle
was on that delightful morning. As for Toddie—blessed be the law of
compensation!—his faculty of repetition, and of echoing whatever he
heard said, caused him to murmur, “Miff Mayton, Miff Mayton,” all
morning long, and the sound gained in sweetness by its ceaseless
iteration. To be sure, Budge took early and frequent occasions to
remind me of my promises of the night before, and Toddie occasionally
demanded the promised candy cigar; but these very interruptions only
added joy to my own topic of interest each time it was resumed. The
filling of Budge’s orders occupied two or three hours and all the
vacant space in the carriage; even then the goat and goat-carriage
were compelled to follow behind.
The program for the afternoon was arranged to the satisfaction of every
one. I gave the coachman, Mike, a dollar to harness the goat and teach
the children to drive him; this left me free to drive off without being
followed by two small figures and two pitiful howls.
I always believed a horse was infected by the spirit of his driver. My
dear old four-footed military companions always seemed to perfectly
comprehend my desires and intentions, and certainly my brother-in-law’s
horses entered into my own spirits on this particular afternoon. They
stepped proudly, they arched their powerful necks handsomely, their
feet seemed barely to touch the ground; yet they did not grow restive
under the bit, nor were they frightened, even, at a hideous steam
road-rolling machine which passed us. As I drove up to Mrs. Clarkson’s
door I found that most of the boarders were on the piazza—the memories
of ladies are usually good at times. Alice immediately appeared,
composed of course, but more radiant than ever.
“Why, where are the boys?” she exclaimed.
“I was afraid they might annoy your mother,” I replied, “so I left them
behind.”
“Oh, mother hardly feels well enough to go to-day,” said she; “she is
lying down.”
“Then we can pick up the boys on the road,” said I, for which remark
my enchantress, already descending the steps, gave me a look which the
ladies behind her would have given their best switches to have seen.
We drove off as decorously as if it were Sunday and we were going to
church; we industriously pointed out to each other every handsome
garden and tasteful residence we passed; we met other people driving,
and conversed fluently upon their horses, carriages and dress. But when
we reached the edge of the town, and I turned into “Happy Valley,”
a road following the depressions and curves of a long, well-wooded
valley, in which there was not a single straight line, I turned and
looked into my darling’s face. Her eyes met mine, and although they
were full of a happiness which I had never seen in them before, they
filled with tears, and their dear owner dropped her head on my shoulder.
[Illustration: TO SKIP ALL LOVE TALKS IN NOVELS]
What we said on that long drive would not interest the reader. I have
learned by experience to skip all love talks in novels, no matter how
delightful the lovers may be. Recalling now our conversation, it does
not seem to have had anything wonderful in it. I will only say, that
if I had been happy on the evening before, my happiness now seemed to
be sanctified; to be favored with the love and confidence of a simple
girl scarcely past her childhood, is to receive a greater honor than
court or field can bestow; but even this honor is far surpassed by
that which comes to a man when a woman of rare intelligence, tact and
knowledge of society and the world, unburdens her heart of all its
hopes and fears, and unhesitatingly leaves her destiny to be shaped
by his love. Women like Alice Mayton do not thus give themselves
unreservedly away, except when their trust is born of knowledge as
well as affection, and the realization of all this changed me on that
afternoon from whatever I had been, into what I had long hoped I might
one day be.
But the hours flew rapidly, and I reluctantly turned the horses’ heads
homeward. We had left almost the whole of “Happy Valley” behind us, and
were approaching residences again.
“Now we must be very proper,” said Alice.
“Certainly,” I replied, “here’s a good-by to happy nonsense for this
afternoon.”
I leaned toward her, and gently placed one arm about her neck; she
raised her dear face, from which joy and trust had banished every
indication of caution and reserve, my lips sought hers, when suddenly
we heard a most unearthly, discordant shriek, which presently
separated into two, each of which prolonged itself indefinitely. The
horses started, and Alice—blessed be all frights now, henceforth and
forevermore!—clung tightly to me. The sounds seemed to be approaching
us, and were accompanied by a lively rattling noise, that seemed to
be made by something wooden. Suddenly, as we approached a bend in
the road, I saw my youngest nephew appear from some unknown space,
describe a parabolic curve in the air, ricochet slightly from an earthy
protuberance in the road, and make a final stop in the gutter. At the
same time, there appeared from behind the bend, the goat, then the
carriage dragging on one side, and, lastly, the boy Budge, grasping
tightly the back of the carriage body, and howling frightfully. A
direct collision between the carriage and a stone caused Budge to loose
his hold, while the goat, after taking in the scene, trotted leisurely
off, and disappeared in a road leading to the house of his late owner.
“Budge,” I shouted, “stop that bawling and come here! Where’s Mike?”
“He—boo—hoo—went to—boo—light—his—boo—hoo—hoo—pipe, an’ I just let
the—boo—hoo—whip go against to the goat, an’ he scattooed.”
“Nashty old goat scaddooed,” said Toddie, in corroboration.
“Well, walk right home, and tell Maggie to wash and dress you,” said I.
“O Harry,” pleaded Alice, “after they’ve been in such danger! Come
here to your own Aunt Alice, Budgie, dear,—and you, too, Toddie,—you
know you said we could pick the boys up on the road, Harry. There,
there—don’t cry—let me wipe the ugly old dirt off you, and kiss the
face, and make it well.”
“Alice,” I protested,” don’t let those dirty boys clamber all over you
in that way.”
“Silence, sir,” said she, with mock dignity, “who gave me my lover, I
should like to ask?”
So we drove up to the boarding-house with the air of people who had
been devoting themselves to a couple of very disreputable children,
and I drove swiftly away again, lest the children should dispel the
illusion. We soon met Mike, running. The moment he recognized us, he
shouted:
“Ah, ye little dhivils,—beggin’ yer pardon, Masther Harry, an’ thankin’
the Howly Mither that their good-for-nothin’ little bones ain’t broke
to bits. Av they saw a hippypottymus hitched to Pharaoh’s chariot
they’d think ’emselves jist the byes to take the bossin’ av it, the
spalpeens!”
[Illustration: THE GOAT, THE CARRIAGE AND THE BOYS]
But no number of ordinary hippopotami and chariots could have
disturbed the heavenly tranquillity of my mind on this most glorious
of evenings. Even a subtle sense of the fitness of things seemed to
overshadow my nephews. Perhaps the touch of my enchantress did it;
perhaps it came only from the natural relapse from great excitement;
but no matter what the reason was, the fact remains that for the rest
of the evening two very dirty suits of clothes held two children who
gave one some idea of how the denizens of Paradise might seem and
act. They even ate their suppers without indulging in any of the
repulsive ways of which they had so large an assortment, and they did
not surreptitiously remove from the table any fragments of bread and
butter to leave on the piano, in the card-basket, and other places
inappropriate to the reception of such varieties of abandoned property.
They demanded a song after supper, but when I sang, “Drink to me only
with Thine Eyes,” and “Thou, Thou, Reign’st in this Bosom,” they stood
by with silent tongues and appreciative eyes. When they went to bed, I
accompanied them by special invitation, but they showed no disposition
to engage in the usual bedtime frolic and miniature pandemonium. Budge,
when in bed, closed his eyes, folded his hands and prayed:—
“Dear Lord, bless papa an’ mamma, an’ Toddie, an’ Uncle Harry, an’
everybody else; yes, an’ bless just lots that lovely, lovely lady that
comforted me after the goat was bad to me, an’ let her comfort me lots
of times, for Christ’s sake, Amen.”
And Toddie wriggled, twisted, breathed heavily, threw his head back,
and prayed:—
“Dee Lord, don’t let dat old goat fro me into de gutter on my head
aden, an’ let Ocken Hawwy an’ ze pitty lady be dere netst time I dets
hurted.”
Then the good-night salutations were exchanged, and I left the little
darlings and enjoyed communion with my own thoughts, which were as
peaceful and ecstatic as if the world contained no white goods houses,
no doubtful customers, no business competition, no politics, gold
rooms, stock-boards, doubtful banks, political scandals, personal
iniquity nor anything which would prevent a short vacation from lasting
through a long lifetime.
The next morning would have struck terror to the heart of any one but
a newly accepted lover. Rain was falling fast, and in that steady,
industrious manner which seemed to assert an intention to stick closely
to business for the whole day. The sky was covered by one impenetrable,
leaden cloud, water stood in pools in the streets which were soft
with dust a few hours before; the flowers all hung their heads, like
vagabonds who had been awake all night and were ashamed to face the
daylight. Even the chickens stood about in dejected attitudes, and
stray roosters from other poultry yards found refuge in Tom’s coop,
without first being subjected to a trial of strength and skill by Tom’s
gamecock.
But no man in my condition of mind could be easily depressed by bad
weather. I would rather have been able to drive about under a clear
sky, or lounge under the trees, or walk to the post-office in the
afternoon by the road which passed directly in front of Mrs. Clarkson’s
boarding-house; but man should not live for himself alone. In the room
next mine, were slumbering two wee people to whom I owed a great deal,
and who would mourn bitterly when they saw the condition of the skies
and ground—I would devote myself to the task of making _them_ so happy
that they would forget the absence of sunshine out of doors—I would sit
by their bedside and have a story ready for them the moment they awoke,
and put them in such a good humor that they could laugh, with me, at
cloud and rain.
I began at once to construct a story for their especial benefit; the
scene was to be a country residence on a rainy day, and the actors
two little boys who should become uproariously jolly in spite of the
weather. Like most people not used to story-making, my progress was
not very rapid; in fact, I had got no farther than the plot indicated
above when an angry snarl came from the children’s room.
“What’s the matter, Budge?” I shouted, dressing myself as rapidly as
possible.
“Ow—oo—ya—ng—um—boo—gaa!” was the somewhat complicated response.
“What did you say, Budge?”
“Didn’t say noffin’.”
“Oh—that’s what I thought.”
“_Didn’t_ thought.”
“Budge,—Budge,—be good.”
“Don’t _want_ to be good—_ya_—A—A!”
“Let’s have some fun, Budge—don’t you want to frolic?”
“No; I don’t think frolics is nice.”
“Don’t you want some candy, Budge?”
“No—you ain’t _got_ no candy, I bleeve.”
“Well, you sha’n’t have any, if you don’t stop being so cross.”
The only reply to this was a mighty and audible rustling of the bedding
in the boys’ room, followed by a sound strongly resembling that caused
by a slap; then came a prolonged wail, resembling that of an ungreased
wagon wheel.
“What’s the matter, Toddie?”
“Budge s’apped me—ah—h—h—h!”
“What made you slap your brother, Budge?”
“I _didn’t_.”
“You _did_!” screamed Toddie.
“I tell you I didn’t—you’re a naughty, bad boy to tell such lies,
Toddie.”
“What _did_ you do, Budge?” I asked.
“Why—why—I was—I was turnin’ over in bed, an’ my hand was out, an’ it
tumbled against to Toddie—that’s what.”
By this time I was dressed and in the boys’ room. Both my nephews were
sitting up in bed, Budge looking as sullen as an old jailbird, and
Toddie with tears streaming all over his face.
“Boys,” said I, “don’t be angry with each other—it isn’t right. What do
you suppose the Lord thinks, when He sees you so cross to each other?”
“He don’t think noffin’,” said Budge; “you don’t think He can look
through a black sky like that, do you?”
“He can look anywhere, Budge, and He feels very unhappy when He sees
little brothers angry with each other.”
“Well, I feel unhappy, too—I wish there wasn’t never no old rain, nor
noffin’.”
“Then what would plants and flowers do for a drink and where would
rivers come from for you to go sailing on?”
“An’ wawtoo to mate mud-pies,” added Toddie. “You’s a naughty boy,
Budgie”; and here Toddie’s tears began to flow afresh.
“I _ain’t_ a bad boy, an’ I don’t want no old rain nohow, an’ that’s
all about it. An’ I don’t want to get up, an’ Maggie must bring me up
my breakfast in bed.”
“Boo—hoo—oo,” wept Toddie, “wants my brepspup in bed too.”
“Boys,” said I, “now listen. You can’t have any breakfast at all,
unless you are up and dressed by the time the bell rings. The
rising-bell rang some time ago. Now dress like good boys, and you shall
have some breakfast, and then you’ll feel a great deal nicer, and then
Uncle Harry will play with you and tell you stories all day long.”
Budge crept reluctantly out of bed and caught up one of his stockings,
while Toddie again began to cry.
[Illustration: “AN’ WAWTOO TO MATE MUD-PIES”]
“Toddie!” I shouted, “stop that dreadful racket, and dress yourself!
What are you crying for?”
“Well, I feelsh bad.”
“Well, dress yourself, and you’ll feel better.”
“Wantsh _you_ to djesh me.”
“Bring me your clothes, then—quick!”
Again the tears flowed copiously. “Don’t _want_ to bring ’em,” said
Toddie.
“Then come here!” I shouted, dragging him across the room and snatching
up his tiny articles of apparel. I had dressed no small children since
I was rather a small boy myself, and Toddies clothing confused me
somewhat. I finally got something on him, when a contemptuous laugh
from Budge interrupted me.
“How you goin’ to put his shirt on under them things?” queried my
oldest nephew.
“Budge,” I retorted, “how are you going to get any breakfast if you
don’t put on something besides that stocking?”
The young man’s countenance fell, and just then the breakfast-bell
rang. Budge raised a blank face, hurried to the head of the stairs and
shouted:—
“Maggie?”
“What is it, Budge?”
“Was—was that the rising-bell or the breakfast-bell?”
”’Twas the breakfast-bell.”
There was dead silence for a moment, and then Budge shouted:—
“Well, we’ll call that the risin’-bell. You can ring another bell
for breakfast pretty soon, when I get dressed.” Then this volunteer
adjuster of household affairs came calmly back and commenced dressing
in good earnest, while I labored along with Toddie’s wardrobe.
“Where’s the button-hook, Budge?” said I.
“It’s—I—oh—um—I put it—say, Tod, what did you do with the button-hook
yesterday?”
“Didn’t hazh no button-hook,” asserted Toddie.
“Yes, you did; don’t you ’member how we was a playin’ draw teef, an’
the doctor’s dog had the toofache, and I was pullin’ his teef with the
button-hook an’ you was my little boy, an’ I gived the toof-puller to
you to hold for me? Where did you put it?”
“_I’d_ no,” replied Toddie, putting his hand in his pocket and bringing
out a sickly-looking toad.
“Feel again,” said I, throwing the toad out of the window, where it
was followed by an agonized shriek from Toddie. Again he felt, and his
search was rewarded by the tension-screw of Helen’s sewing-machine.
Then I attempted some research myself, and speedily found my fingers
adhering to something of a sticky consistency. I quickly withdrew my
hand, exclaiming:—
“What nasty stuff _have_ you got in your pocket, Toddie?”
”’Tain’t nashty ’tuff—it’s byead an’ lasses, an’ it’s nice, an’ Budge
an’ me hazh little tea parties in de kicken-coop, an’ we eats it, an’
its _dovely_.”
All this was lucid and disgusting, but utterly unproductive of
button-hooks, and meanwhile the breakfast was growing cold. I succeeded
in buttoning Toddie’s shoes with my fingers, splitting most of my nails
in the operation. I had been too busily engaged with Toddie to pay any
attention to Budge, who I now found about half dressed and trying to
catch flies on the window pane.
Snatching Toddie, I started for the dining-room, when Budge remarked
reprovingly:
“Uncle Harry, _you_ wasn’t dressed when the bell rang, and _you_
oughtn’t to have any breakfast.”
True enough—I was minus collar, cravat, and coat. Hurrying these on,
and starting again, I was once more arrested:—
“Uncle Harry, must I brush my teeth this morning?”
“No—hurry up—come down without doing anything more, if you like, but
_come_—it’ll be dinner-time before we get breakfast.”
Then that imp was moved, for the first time that morning to something
like good-nature, and he exclaimed with a giggle:—
“My! What big stomachs we’d have when we got done, wouldn’t we?”
At the breakfast table Toddie wept again, because I insisted on
beginning operations before Budge came. Then neither boy knew exactly
what he wanted. Then Budge managed to upset the contents of his plate
into his lap, and while I was helping him to clear away the débris,
Toddie improved the opportunity to pour his milk upon his fish and put
several spoonfuls of oatmeal porridge into my coffee-cup. I made an
early excuse to leave the table and turn the children over to Maggie.
I felt as tired as if I had done a hard day’s work, and was somewhat
appalled at realizing that the day had barely begun. I lit a cigar and
sat down to Helen’s piano. I am not a musician, but even the chords of
a hand-organ would have seemed sweet music to me on that morning. The
music-book nearest to my hand was a church hymn-book, and the first
air my eye struck was “Greenville.” I lived once in a town, where,
on a single day, a peddler disposed of thirty-eight accordions, each
with an instruction-book in which this same air, under its original
name, was the only air. For years after, a single bar of this air
awakened the most melancholy reflections in my mind, but now I forgave
all my musical tormentors as the familiar strains came comfortingly
from the piano-keys. But suddenly I heard an accompaniment—a sort of
reedy sound—and looking round, I saw Toddie again in tears. I stopped
abruptly and asked:—
“What’s the matter _now_, Toddie?”
“Don’t want dat old tune; wantsh dancin’ tune, so I can dance.”
[Illustration: “WANTSH DANCIN’ TUNE”]
I promptly played “Yankee Doodle,” and Toddie began to trot around the
room with the expression of a man who intended to do his whole duty.
Then Budge appeared, hugging a bound volume of “St. Nicholas.” The
moment that Toddie espied this he stopped dancing and devoted himself
anew to the task of weeping.
“Toddie!” I shouted, springing from the piano stool, “what do you mean
by crying at everything? I shall have to put you to bed again if you’re
going to be such a baby.”
“That’s the way he _always_ does, rainy days,” exclaimed Budge.
“Wantsh to see the whay-al what fwallowed Djonah,” sobbed Toddie.
“Can’t you demand something that’s within the range of possibility,
Toddie?” I mildly asked.
“The whale Toddie means is in this big red book; I’ll find it for you,”
said Budge, turning over the leaves.
Suddenly a rejoicing squeal from Toddie announced that leviathan had
been found, and I hastened to gaze. He was certainly a dreadful-looking
animal, but he had an enormous mouth, which Toddie caressed with his
pudgy little hand, and kissed with tenderness, murmuring as he did so:—
“_Dee_ old whay-al, I loves you. Is Djonah all goneded out of you
’tomach, whay-al? I finks ’twas weal mean in Djonah to get froed up
when you hadn’t noffin’ else to eat, _poor_ old whay-al.”
“Of _course_ Jonah’s gone,” said Budge, “he went to heaven long
ago—pretty soon after he went to Nineveh an’ done what the Lord told
him to do. Now swing us, Uncle Harry.”
The swing was on the piazza under cover from the rain; so I obeyed.
Both boys fought for the right to swing first, and when I decided in
favor of Budge, Toddie went off weeping, and declaring that he would
look at his dear whay-al anyhow. A moment later his wail changed to a
piercing shriek; and, running to his assistance, I saw him holding one
finger tenderly and trampling on a wasp.
“What’s the matter, Toddie?”
“Oo—oo—ee—ee—ee—_ee_—I putted my finger on a waps, and—oo—oo—the nasty
old waps—oo—bited me. An’ I don’t like wapses a bit, but I likes
whay-als—oo—ee—ee.”
A happy thought struck me. “Why don’t you boys make believe that big
packing-box in your play-room is a whale?” said I.
A compound shriek of delight followed the suggestion, and both boys
scrambled upstairs, leaving me a free man again. I looked remorsefully
at the tableful of books which I had brought to read, and had not
looked at for a week. Even now my remorse did not move me to open
them—I found myself, instead, attracted toward Tom’s library, and
conning the titles of novels and volumes of poems. My eye was caught
by “Initials,” a love story which I had always avoided because I had
heard impressionable young ladies rave about it; but now I picked it up
and dropped into an easy chair. Suddenly I heard Mike, the coachman,
shouting:—
“Go ’way from there, will ye? Ah, ye little spalpeen, it’s good for ye
that yer fahder don’t see ye perched up dhere. Go ’way from dhat, or
I’ll be tellin’ yer uncle.”
“Don’t care for nashty old uncle,” piped Toddie’s voice.
I laid down my book with a sigh, and went into the garden. Mike saw me
and shouted:
“Mister Burthon, will you look dhere? Did ye’s ever see the loike av
dhat bye?”
Looking up at the play-room window, a long, narrow sort of loop-hole
in a Gothic gable, I beheld my youngest nephew standing upright on the
sill.
“Toddie, go in—quick!” I shouted, hurrying under the window to catch
him in case he fell outward.
“I tan’t!” squealed Toddie.
“Mike, run upstairs and snatch him in! Toddie, go in, I tell you!”
“Tell you I _tan’t_ doe in,” repeated Toddie. “_Ze_ bid bots ish ze
whay-al, an’ I’ze Djonah, an’ ze whay-al’s froed me up, an’ I’ze dot to
’tay up here else ze whay-al ’ill fwallow me aden.”
“I won’t _let_ him swallow you. Get in now—hurry,” said I.
“Will you give him a penny not to fwallow me no more?” queried Toddie.
“Yes—a whole lot of pennies.”
“Aw wight. Whay-al, don’t you fwallow me no more, an’ zen my Ocken
Hawwy div you whole lots of pennies. You must be weal dood whay-al now,
an’ then I buys you some tandy wif your pennies, an’——”
Just then two great hands seized Toddie’s frock in front, and he
disappeared with a howl, while I, with the first feeling of faintness I
had ever experienced, went in search of hammer, nails, and some strips
of board, to nail on the outside of the window-frame. But boards could
not be found, so I went up to the play-room and began to knock a piece
or two off the box which had done duty as whale. A pitiful scream from
Toddie caused me to stop.
“You’re hurtin’ my dee old whay-al; you’s breakin’ his ’tomach all
open—you’s a baddy man—’_top_ hurtin’ my whay-al, ee—ee—ee!” cried my
nephew.
“I’m not hurting him, Toddie,” said I. “I’m making his mouth bigger,
so he can swallow you easier.”