to make us happy. Say, Aunt Alice, why don’t you have a horse an’
carriage like mamma, so that you could take us out ridin’?”
“Uncle Harry isn’t rich enough to keep good horses and carriages,” said
Mrs. Burton, “and he doesn’t like poor ones.”
“Why, how much does good horses cost? I think Mr. Blanner’s horses are
pretty good, but papa says they’d be dear at ten cents apiece.”
“I suppose a good horse costs three or four hundred dollars,” said Mrs.
Burton.
“My--y--y!” exclaimed Budge. “That’ more money than it costs our
Sunday-school to pay for a missionary! Which is goodest--horses or
missionaries?”
“Missionaries, of course,” said Mrs. Burton, leaving the piazza, with a
dim impression that she had, during the morning, answered a great many
questions with very slight benefit to any one.
The boys cared for themselves until luncheon, and then returned
with rather less appetite than was peculiar to them. The new siege
of questioning which their aunt had anticipated was postponed; each
boy’s mind seemed to be in the reflective, rather than the receptive,
attitude.
After luncheon they hastily disappeared, without any attempt on the
part of their aunt to prevent them, for Mrs. Burton had arranged
to make, that afternoon, one of the most important of calls. Mrs.
Congressman Weathervane had been visiting a friend at Hillcrest, and
Mrs. Weathervane’s mother and Mrs. Burton’s grandmother had been
schoolday acquaintances, and Mrs. Mayton would have come from the
city to pay her respects to the descendant of the old friend of
the family, but some of the infirmities of age prevented. And Mrs.
Mayton instructed her daughter to call upon Mrs. Weathervane as a
representative of the family, and Mrs. Burton would have lost her right
hand or her new spring hat rather than disregard such a command. So she
had hired a carriage and devised an irreproachable toilet, and recalled
and tabulated everything she had ever heard about the family of the
lady who had become Mrs. Weathervane.
The carriage arrived, and no brace of boys dashed from unexpected
lurking-places to claim a portion of its seats. The carriage rolled
off in safety, and Mrs. Burton fell into an impromptu service of
praise to the kind power which often blesses us when we least expect
to be blessed. The carriage reached the house and the terrible Mrs.
Weathervane turned out to be one of the most charming of young women,
before whose sunny temperament Mrs. Burton’s assumed dignity melted
like the snow of May, and her store of venerable family anecdotes
disappeared at once from the memory which had guarded them jealously.
[Illustration: THE SQUEAK OF THE VIOLIN AND THE WAIL OF A BADLY PLAYED
WIND INSTRUMENT]
But joy is never unalloyed in this wicked world. While the couple were
chatting merrily, and Mrs. Weathervane was insisting that Mrs. Burton
should visit her at Washington during the session, and Mrs. Burton was
trying to persuade Mrs. Weathervane to accept the Burton hospitality
for at least a day or two, there arose under the window the squeak of
violin and the wail of some badly played wind instrument.
“Those wretched little Italians!” exclaimed Mrs. Weathervane. “For
which of our sins, I wonder, are we condemned to listen to them?”
“If they come as punishment for sins,” said Mrs. Burton, “how wicked I
must be, for this is my second experience with them to-day. They were
at my house for half an hour this morning.”
“And you are sweet of disposition this afternoon?” said Mrs.
Weathervane. “Oh! I must spend a day or two with you, and take some
lessons in saintly patience.”
Mrs. Burton inclined her head in acknowledgment, and Mrs. Weathervane
approached some other topic, when the violin under the window gave vent
to a series of terrible groans of anguish, while the wind-instrument,
apparently a flute, shrieked discordantly in three notes an octave
apart from each other.
“An attempt to execute something upon one string, I suppose,” said
Mrs. Weathervane, “and the execution is successful only as criminal
executions are. What should be done to the little wretches? And yet
one can’t help giving them money; did you see the story of their
terrible life in the newspapers this week? It seems they are hired in
Italy by dreadful men, who bring them here, torture them into learning
their wretched tunes and then send them out to play and beg. They are
terribly whipped if they do not bring home a certain sum of money every
day.”
“The poor little things!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “I’m glad that I gave
them a good many pennies this morning. I must have had an intuition of
their fate, for I’m certain I had no musical enjoyment to be paid for.
They can hardly be as old as some children in nurseries, either.”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Weathervane, going to the window. “The elder
of these two boys cannot be more than six, while the younger may be
four; and the older looks so sad, so introspective! The younger--poor
little fellow--has only expectancy in his countenance. He is looking
up to all the windows for the pennies that he expects to be thrown to
him. He has probably not had so hard an experience as his companion,
for his instrument is only a common whistle. Think of the frauds which
their masters practise upon the tender-hearted! The idea of sending out
a child with a common whistle on the pretense of making music.”
“It’s perfectly dreadful!” said Mrs. Burton.
“Then to think what the parents of some of these children may have
been,” continued Mrs. Weathervane. “The older of this couple has
really many noble lines in his face, did not the long-drawn agony of
separation and abuse inscribe deeper ones there. The smaller one,
vilely dirty as he is, has a very picturesque head and figure. He is
smiling now. Oh! what wouldn’t I give if some artist could catch his
expression for me!”
“Really,” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, approaching the window; “I hadn’t
noticed so many charms about them, but I shall be glad to have them
pointed out to me. Mercy!”
“What can be the matter?” murmured Mrs. Weathervane, as her visitor
fell back from the window and dropped into a chair.
“They’re my nephews!” gasped Mrs. Burton. “Oh, what shall I do with
those dreadful children?”
“Stolen from home?” inquired Mrs. Weathervane, discerning a romance
within reaching distance.
“No--oh, no!” said Mrs. Burton. “I left them at home an hour or two
ago. I can’t imagine why they should have taken this freak, unless
because boys will be dreadful, no matter what is done for them. I
suppose,” she continued, hurrying to the window, “that Budge has his
uncle’s violin, which I think is fully as dear to its owner as his
wife. Yes, he has it! Boys!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, appearing at the
piazza-door, “go directly home.”
At the sound of their aunt’s voice the boys looked up with glad smiles
of recognition, while Budge exclaimed, “Oh, Aunt Alice! we’ve played at
lots of houses, an’ we’ve got nearly a dollar. We told everybody we
was playin’ to help Uncle Harry buy a horse an’ carriage!”
“Go home!” repeated Mrs. Burton. “Go by the back road, too. I am going
myself right away. Be sure that I find you there when I return.”
Slowly and sadly the amateurs submitted to the fateful decree and moved
toward home, while Mrs Weathervane bestowed a sympathetic kiss upon
her troubled visitor. A great many people came to doors and windows
to see the couple pass by, but what was public interest to a couple
whose motive had been rudely destroyed? So dejected was their mien as
they approached the Burton mansion, and so listless was their step,
that the dog Terry, who was on guard at the front door, gave only an
inquiring wag of his tail, and did not change his position as the boys
passed over the door-mat upon which he lay. A moment or two later a
carriage dashed up to the door, and Mrs. Burton descended, hurried into
the house, and exclaimed:
“How dared you to do such a vulgar, disgraceful thing?”
“Well,” said Budge, “that’s another of the things we don’t understand
much about, even after we’re told. We thought we could be just as good
to you an’ Uncle Harry as dirty little Italian boys is to their papas
an’ mammas, an’ when we tried it, you made us go straight home.”
“Dzust the same fing as saying ‘Don’t’s at us,” Toddie complained.
“An’ after we got a whole lot of money, too!” said Budge. “Papa says
some big men don’t get more than a dollar in a day, an’ we got most a
dollar in a little bit of a while. It’s partly because we was honest,
though, I guess, an’ told the troof everywhere--we told everybody that
we wanted the money to help Uncle Harry to buy a horse an’ carriage.”
[Illustration: UNCLE HARRY’S FRANTIC EXAMINATION OF HIS BELOVED VIOLIN]
Uncle Harry himself, moved by his aching tooth, had returned from
New York in time to hear, unperceived, the last portion of Budge’s
explanation, after which he heard the remainder of the story from
his wife. His expression as he listened, his glance at his nephews,
and his frantic examination of his beloved violin, gave the boys to
understand how utter is sometimes the failure of good intentions to
make happy those persons for whose benefit they are exerted. The somber
reflections of the musicians were unchanged by anything which occurred
during the remainder of the afternoon, and when they retired, it was
with a full but sorrowful heart that Budge prayed: “Dear Lord, I’ve
been scolded again for tryin’ to do somethin’ real nice for other
people. I guess it makes me know something about how the good prophets
felt. Please don’t let me have to be killed for doin’ good. Amen.”
And Toddie prayed: “Dee Lord, dere’ some more ‘Don’t’s been said to me,
an’ I fink Aunt Alice ought to be ’hamed of herself. Won’t you please
make her so? Amen.”
CHAPTER VII
“That,” murmured Mrs. Burton on Tuesday morning, as she prepared to
descend to the breakfast table, “promises a pleasant day.” Then, in a
louder tone, she said to her husband: “Harry, just listen to those dear
children singing! Aren’t their voices sweet?”
“’Sing before breakfast, cry before dark,’” quoted Mr. Burton, quoting
a popular saying.
“For shame!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “And when they’re singing sweet
little child-hymns too! There! they’re starting another.”
Mrs. Burton took the graceful listening attitude peculiar to ladies,
her husband stood in the military position of “attention,” and both
heard the following morceau:
“I want--to be--an an--gel
An’ with--the an--gels stand;
A crown--upon--my fore--head
A hop--per in--my hand.”
“Hopper--h’m!” said Mr. Burton. “They refer to the hind-leg of a
grasshopper, my dear. The angelic life would be indeed dreary to those
youngsters without some such original plaything.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” said the lady. “I hope you won’t
suggest any such notion to them. I don’t believe they would have had
so many peculiar views about the next world if some one hadn’t exerted
an improper influence--you and your brother-in-law Tom Lawrence, their
father, for instance.”
“Well,” said Mr. Burton, “if they are so susceptible to the influence
of others, I suppose you have them about reformed in most respects? You
have had entire charge of them for seven days.”
“Six--only six,” corrected Mrs. Burton, hastily. “I wish----”
“That there really was one day less for them to remain?” said Mr.
Burton, looking his wife full in the face.
Mrs. Burton dropped her eyes quickly, trying first to turn in search of
something she did not want, but her husband knew his wife’s nature too
much to be misled by this ruse. Putting as much tenderness in his voice
as he knew how to do, he said:
“Little girl, tell the truth. Haven’t you learned more than they?”
Mrs. Burton still kept her eyes out of range of those of her husband,
but replied with composure:
“I have learned a great deal, as one must when brought in contact with
a new subject, but the acquired knowledge of an adult is the source of
new power, and of much and more knowledge to be imparted.”
Mr. Burton contemplated his wife with curiosity which soon made place
for undisguised admiration, but when he turned his face again to the
mirror he could see in its expression nothing but pity. Meanwhile the
cessation of the children’s songs, the confused patter of little feet
on the stair, and an agonized yelp from the dog Terry, indicated that
the boys had left their chamber. Then the Burtons heard their own
door-knob turned, an indignant kick which followed the discovery that
the door was bolted, and then a shout of:
“Say!”
“What’s wanted?” asked Mr. Burton.
“I want to come in,” answered Budge.
“Me, too,” piped Toddie.
“What for?”
A moment of silence ensued, and then Budge answered:
“Why, because we do. I should think anybody would understand that
without asking.”
“Well, we bolted the door because we didn’t want any one to come in. I
should think anybody could understand that without asking.”
“Oh! Well, I’ll tell you what we want to come in for; we want to tell
you something perfectly lovely.”
“Do you wish to listen to an original romance, my dear?” asked Mr.
Burton.
“Certainly,” replied the lady.
“And break your resolution to teach them that our chamber is not a
general ante-breakfast gathering-place?”
“Oh, they won’t infer anything of the kind if we admit them just once,”
said Mrs. Burton.
“H’m--we won’t count this time,” quoted Mr. Burton from “Rip Van
Winkle,” with a suggestive smile, which was instantly banished by a
frown from his wife. Mr. Burton dutifully drew the bolt and both boys
tumbled into the room.
“We were both leaning against the door,” explained Budge; “that’s why
we dropped over each other. We knew you’d let us in.”
Mr. Burton gave his wife another peculiar look which the lady affected
not to notice as she asked:
“What is the lovely thing you were going to tell us?”
“Why----”
“I--I--I--I--I----” interrupted Toddie.
[Illustration: BOTH BOYS TUMBLED INTO THE ROOM]
“Tod, be still!” commanded Budge. “I began it first.”
“But I finked it fyst,” expostulated Toddie.
[Ilustration: BOTH BOYS TUMBLED INTO THE ROOM]
“I’ll tell you what, then, Tod--I’ll tell ’em about it an’ you worry
’em to do it. That’ fair, isn’t it?” and then, without awaiting the
result of Toddie’s deliberations Budge continued:
“What we want is a picnic. Papa’ll lend you the carriage, and we’ll get
in it and go up to the Falls, and have a lovely day of it. That’s just
the nicest place I ever saw. You can swing us in the big swing there,
an’ take us in swimmin’, an’ row us in a boat, an’ buy us lemonade
at the hotel, an’ we can throw stones in the water, an’ paddle, an’
catch fish, an’ run races. All these other things--not the first ones
I told you about--we can do for ourselves, an’ you an’ Aunt Alice can
lie on the grass under the trees, an’ smoke cigars, an’ be happy,
’cause you’ve made us happy. That’s the way papa does. An’ you must
take lots of lunch along, ’cause little boys gets pretty empty-feeling
when they go to such places. Oh, yes--an’ you can throw Terry in the
water an’ make him swim after sticks--I’ll bet he can’t get away there
without our catching him.”
“But de lunch has got to be lots,” said Toddie, “else dere won’t be
any fun--not one bittie. An’ you’ll take us, won’t you? We’ze been
dreadful good all mornin’. I’ze singed Sunday songs until my froat’s
all sandy.”
“All what?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“Sandy,” replied Toddie. “Don’t you know how funny it feels to rub sand
between your hands when you hazhn’t got djuvs on? If you don’t, I’ll go
bring you in some.”
“Your aunt will take your word for it,” said Mr. Burton, as his wife
did not respond.
“An’ we’ll be awful tired after the picnic’ done,” said Budge, “an’
you can hold us in your arms in the carriage all the way back. That’s
the way papa an’ mamma does.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Burton. “That will be an inducement. And it
explains why your papa can make a new coat look old quicker than any
other man of my acquaintance.”
“And why your mother always has a skirt to clean or mend,” said Mrs.
Burton.
“It’s all told now, Tod,” said Budge. “Why don’t you worry ’em?”
Toddie clasped his aunt’s skirts affectionately, and said, in most
appealing tones:
“You’e a-goin’ to, izhn’t you?”
“Papa says it was always easier for you to say ‘yes’s than ‘no,’”
remarked Budge; “an’----”
“A fine reputation your brother-in-law gives you,” remarked Mrs.
Burton.
“An’ I once heard a lady say she thought you said ‘yes’s pretty easy,”
continued Budge, addressing his aunt. “I thought she meant something
that you said to Uncle Harry, by the way she talked.” Mrs. Burton
flushed angrily, but Budge continued: “An’ you ought to be as good
to us as you are to him, ’cause he’s a big man, an’ don’t have to be
helped every time he wants any fun. Besides, you’ve got him all the
time, but you can only have us four days longer--three days besides
to-day.”
“Another paraphrase of Scripture--application perfect,” remarked Mr.
Burton to his wife. “Shall we go?”
“Can you?” asked the lady, suddenly grown radiant.
“I suppose--oh, I know I can,” replied Mr. Burton, assuming that the
anticipation of a day in his society was the sole cause of his wife’s
joy.
Mrs. Burton knew his thoughts but failed to correct them, guilty
though she felt at her neglect. That she would be practically relieved
of responsibility during the day was the cause of her happiness. The
children had always preferred the companionship of their uncle to that
of his wife; she had at times been secretly mortified and offended at
this preference, but in the week just ending she had entirely lost this
feeling.
The announcement that their host and hostess thought favorably of the
proposition was received by the boys with lively manifestations of
delight, and for two hours no other two persons in the state were more
busy than Budge and Toddie. Even their appetites gave way under the
excitement and their stay at the breakfast table was of short duration.
Budge visited his father and arranged for the use of the carriage
while Toddie superintended the packing of the eatables until the cook
banished him from the kitchen, and protected herself from subsequent
invasion by locking the door. Then both boys suggested enough extra
luggage to fill a wagon and volunteered instructions at a rate which
was not retarded by the neglect with which their commands were received.
When the last package was taken into the carriage the dog Terry was
helped to a seat and the party started. They had been _en route_ about
five minutes, when Budge remarked:
“Uncle Harry, I want a drink.”
“Uncle Harry,” said Toddie, “I’m ’most starved to deff. I didn’t have
hardly any brekspup.”
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Burton. “Wasn’t there plenty on the table?”
“I doe know,” Toddie replied, looking inquiringly into his aunt’s face
as if to refresh his memory.
“Weren’t you hungry at breakfast-time?” continued Mrs. Burton.
“I--I--I--I--why, yesh--I mean my tummuk wazh hungry, but my toofs
wasn’t--dat’ de way it wazh. An’ I guesh what I’d better have now is
sardines an’ pie.”
“Ethereal creature!” exclaimed Mr. Burton, giving Toddie a cracker.
“I didn’t remember that I was hungry,” said Budge, “but Tod’s talking
about it reminds me. An’ I’d like that drink, too.”
Budge also received some crackers and the carriage was stopped near a
well. The descent of Mr. Burton from the carriage compelled the dog
Terry to change his base, which operation was so impeded by skillful
efforts on the part of the boys that Terry suddenly leaped to the
ground and started for home, followed by a remonstrance from Toddie,
while Budge remarked:
[Illustration: TODDIE DRANK ABOUT TWO SWALLOWS OF WATER]
“He won’t ever go to heaven, Terry won’t. He don’t like to make people
happy.”
Away went the carriage again and it had reached the extreme outskirts
of the town when Toddie said:
“I’m awful fursty.”
“Why didn’t you drink when Budge did?” demanded Mr. Burton.
“’Cauzh I didn’t want to,” replied Toddie. “I izhn’t like old
choo-choos dat getsh filled up dzust ’cause dey comes to a watering
playzh. I only likesh to dwink when I’zhe fursty; an’ I’zhe fursty
now.”
Another well was approached; Toddie drank about two swallows of water,
and replied to his aunt’s declaration that he couldn’t have been
thirsty at all by the explanation:
“I doezn’t hold very much. I izhn’t like de horsesh, dat can dwink
whole pails full of water, an’ den hazh room for gwash. But I guesh
I’zhe got room for some cake.”
“Then I’ll give you another cracker,” said Mr. Burton.
“Don’t want one,” said Toddie. “Cwacker couldn’t push itself down as
easy as cake.”
“I do believe,” said Mrs. Burton, “that the child’s animal nature
has taken complete possession of him. Eating and mischief has been
the whole of his life during the week, yet he used to be so sweetly
fanciful and sensitive.”
“Children’s wits are like the wind, my dear,” said Mr. Burton. “’Thou
canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth’; you set your
sails for it, and behold it isn’t there, but when you’re not expecting
it, down comes the gale.”
“A gale!” echoed Budge. “That’s what we’re goin’ to have to-day.”
“Izn’t neiver,” said Toddie. “Goin’ to hazh a picnic.”
“Well, gales and picnics is the same thing,” said Budge.
“No, dey izhn’t. Galesh is kind o’s rough, but picnics is nysh. Galesh
is like rough little boysh, like you, but picnics is nysh, like dear
little sister-babies.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Budge, “we haven’t seen that baby for two days.
Let’s go right back an’ look at her.”
“Budge, Budge!” remonstrated Mrs. Burton; “try to be content with what
you have, and don’t always be longing for something else. You can go to
see her when we return.”
“I can see her wivout goin’ back,” said Toddie. “I can see anybody I
wantsh to, dzust whenever I pleash.”
“Don’t be silly, Toddie,” remonstrated Mrs. Burton, in spite of a
warning nudge from her husband.
“How do you see them, Toddie?” asked Mr. Burton.
“Why, I duzst finks a fink about ’em, an’ den dey comezh wight inshide
of my eyezh, an’ I sees ’em. I see lotsh of peoples dat-a-way. I
sees AbrahammynIsaac, an’ Bliaff, an’ little Dave, an’ de Hebrew
children, an’ Georgie Washitton hatchetin’ down his papa’s tree,
whenever I finks about ’em. Oh, dere goezh a wabbit! Letsh stop an’
catch him.”
“Oh, no, let him go,” said Mr. Burton. “Perhaps he’s going home to
dinner, and his family are all waiting at the table for him.”
“Gwacious!” said Toddie, opening his eyes very wide and keeping silence
for at least two minutes. Then he said, “I saw a wabbit family eatin’
dinner once. Dey had a little bittie of a table, an’ little bitsh of
chairzh, an’ de papa wabbit ashkted a blessin’ an’----”
“Toddie, Toddie, don’t tell fibs!” said Mrs. Burton, as she again felt
herself touched by her husband’s elbow.
“Izn’t tellin’ fibs! An’ a little boy wabbit said, ‘Papa, I wantsh a
dwink.’s So his papa took a little tumbler, dzust about as big as a
fimble, an’ held a big leaf up sideways so de dew would run off into
de tumbler, an’ he gived it to the little boy wabbit. An’ when dey
got done dinner, de mamma wabbit gave each of de little boy wabbits
a strawberry to suck. An’ none of ’em had to be told to put on de
napkins, ’cause dey only had one dwess, and dat was a color dat didn’t
show dyte, like mamma says I ought to have.”
“Were all the little rabbits boys--no girls at all?” asked Mr. Burton.
“Yesh, dere was a little sister baby, but she wazh too little to come
to de table, so de mamma wabbit held her in her lap and played ‘Little
Pig Went to Market’s on her little bits of toes. Den de sister-baby got
tired, an’ de mamma wabbit wocked it in a wockin’-tsair, an’ sung to
it ’bout----
“Papa gone a-huntin’,
To get a little wabbit-skin
To wap a baby buntin--baby wabbit--in.”
Den de baby-wabbit got tired of its mamma, an’ got down an’ cwept
around on itsh handsh an’ kneezh, an’ didn’t dyty its djess at all
or make its kneezh sore a bit, ’cauzh dere wazh only nice leaves an’
pitty fynes for it to cweep on, instead of ugly old carpets. Say, do
you know I was a wabbit once?”
“Why, no,” said Mr. Burton. “Do tell us about it.”
“Harry!” remonstrated Mrs. Burton.
“He believes it, my dear,” explained her husband. “He has his ’weetly
fanciful’ mood on now, that you were moaning for a few moments ago. Go
on, Toddie.”
“Why, I was a wabbit, and lived all by myself in a hole froo de bottom
of a tree. An’ sometimes uvver wabbits came to see me, an’ we all sat
down on our foots an’ bowled our ears to each uvver. Dogsh came to
see me sometimes, but I dzust let dem wing de bell an’ didn’t ask ’em
to come in. An’ den a dzentleman came an’ asked me to help him make
little boysh laugh in a circus. So I runned around de ring, and picked
up men an’ fings wif my tchunk----”
“Rabbits don’t have trunks, Toddie.”
“I know it, but I tyned into a ephalant. An’ I got lotsh of hay an’
fings wif my tchunk, an’ folks gave me lotsh of cakes an’ candies to
see me eat ’em wif my tchunk, an’ I was so big I could hold ’em all,
an’ I didn’t have any mamma ephalant to say, ‘Too muts cake an’ candy
will make you sick, Toddie.’”
“Anything more?” asked Mr. Burton. “We can stand almost anything.”
“Well, I gotted to be a lion den, and had to roar so much dat my froat
gotted all sandy, so I got turned into a little boy again, an’ I was
awful hungry. I guesh ’twas djust now.”
“Can you resist that hint, my dear?” Mr. Burton asked. His wife, with a
sigh, opened a basket and gave a piece of cake to Toddie, who remarked:
“Dish izh to pay me for tellin’ de troof about all dem fings, izhn’t
it?”
About this time the party reached Little Falls, and Budge said:
“I suppose lunch’ll be the first thing?”
“No,” said Mrs. Burton; “we won’t lunch until our usual hour.”
“But you can have all the drinks you want,” said Mr. Burton. “There’s a
whole river full of water.”
“Oh, I don’t feel as if I’d ever be thirsty again,” said Budge. “But I
wish Terry was here to swim in after sticks. You do it, won’t you? You
play dog an’ I’ll play Uncle Harry an’ throw things to you.”
By this time Toddie had sought the water’ edge, and, taking a stooping
position, looked for fish. The shelving stone upon which he stood was
somewhat moist and Toddie was so intent on his search that he stooped
forward considerably. Suddenly there was heard a splash and a howl, and
Toddie was seen in the river, in water knee-deep. To rescue him was the
work of only a moment, but to stop his tears was no such easy matter.
[Illustration: SUDDENLY HEARD A SPLASH AND A HOWL]
“What is to be done?” exclaimed Mrs. Burton.
“Take off his shoes and stockings and let him run barefooted,” said Mr.
Burton. “The day is warm, so he can’t catch cold.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Toddie, “Izh I goin’ to be barefoot all day? I wishes
dish river wazh wight by our housh; I’d tumble in every day. Budgie,
Budgie, if you wantsh fun dzust go tumble splash into de river.”
But Budge had strolled away, and was tugging at some moss in a crevice
of rock. Here his aunt found him, and he explained, toiling as he
talked:
“I thought--this--would make such--a--lovely cushion for--for you to
sit on.”
The last word and the final tug were concurrent and the moss gave way;
so did Budge, and with a terrific scream, for a little snake had made
his home under the moss, and was expressing indignation, in his own
way, at being disturbed.
“I won’t never do nothin’ for nobody again,” screamed Budge. “I’ll see
that snake every time I shut my eyes, now.”
“You poor, dear little fellow,” said Mrs. Burton, caressing him
tenderly. “I wish Aunt Alice could do something to make you forget it.”
“Well, you can’t, unless--unless, maybe, a piece of pie would do it. It
wouldn’t do any harm to try, I s’pose?”
Mrs. Burton hurried to unpack a pie, as her husband remarked that
Budge was born to be a diplomatist. Looking suspiciously about, for
fear that Toddie might espy Budge’s prescription, and devise some
ailment which it would exactly suit, she discovered that Toddie was out
of sight.
“Oh, he’s gone, Harry! Hurry and find him. Perhaps he’s gone above the
Falls. I do wish we had gone further down the river!”
Mr. Burton took a lively double-quick up and along the bank of the
river, but could see nothing of his nephew.
After two or three minutes, however, above the roar of the falling
water, he heard a shrill voice singing over and over again a single
line of an old Methodist hymn,
“Roar--ing riv--ers, migh--ty fountains!”
Following the sound, he peered over the bank, and saw Toddie in a sunny
nook of rocks just below the Falls, and in a very ecstasy of delight.
He would hold out his hands as if to take the fall itself; then he
would throw back his head and render his line with more force; then
he would dance frantically about, as if his little body was unable to
comfortably contain the great soul within it.
Suddenly coming up the sands below the cliff appeared Mrs. Burton,
whose apprehensions had compelled her to join in the search.
“Oh, Aunt Alish!” exclaimed Toddie, discovering his aunt, and hurrying
to grasp her hand in both of his own; “dzust see de water dance! Do you
see all de lovely lights dat de Lord’s lit in it? Don’t you wiss you
could get in it, an’ fly froo it, an’ have it shake itself all over
you, an’ shake yourself in it, an’ shake it all off of you, an’ den
fly into it aden? Deresh placesh like dis up in hebben. I know, ’cauzh
I saw ’em--one time I did. An’ all the andzels staid around ’em, an’
flew in an’ out, an’ froo an’ froo’s an’ laughed like everyfing!”
Mr. Burton concealed all of himself but his eyes and hat to observe the
impending conflict of ideas; but no conflict ensued, for Mrs. Burton
snatched her nephew and kissed him soundly. But Toddie wriggled away,
exclaiming:
“Don’t do dat, or I’ll get some uvver eyes when I don’t want ’em.”
How long Toddie’s ecstasy might have endured the Burtons never knew,
for a clatter of horse-hoofs on the road attracted Mr. Burton, and,
looking hastily back, he beheld one of his brother’s horses galloping
wildly back towards Hillcrest, while, just letting go of a reinstrap,
and enlivening the dust of the roadway, was the form of the boy Budge,
whose voice rose shrilly above the thunder of the falling waters.
[Illustration: BUDGE ENLIVENED THE DUST OF THE ROADWAY]
Mr. Burton attempted first to catch the horse, but the animal shied
successfully and had so clear a stretch of roadway before him that
humanity soon had Mr. Burton’s heart for its own and he hurried to the
assistance of Budge.
“I--boo-hoo--was just goin’ to lead the--boo-hoo-hoo--horse down to
water like--boo-hoo-hoo--ah--like papa does, when he--oh! how my elbow
hurts!--just pulled away an’ went off. An’ I caught the strap to stop
him, an’--oh! he just pulled me along on my mouth in the dirt about
ten miles. I swallowed all the dirt I could, but I guess I’ve got a
mouthful left.”
Mr. Burton hurriedly unharnessed the other horse, and started, riding
bareback, in search of the runaway, while his wife, who had intuitively
scented trouble in the air, hurried up the cliff with Toddie, and
led both boys to the shadow of the carriage, with instructions to be
perfectly quiet until their uncle returned.
“Can’t we talk?” asked Toddie.
“Oh, not unless you need to for some particular purpose,” said Mrs.
Burton, who, like most other people in trouble, fought most earnestly
against any form of diversion which should keep her from the extremity
of worry. “Can’t little boys’s mouths ever be quiet?”
“Why, yes,” said Budge, “when there’ something in ’em to keep ’em
still.”
In utter desperation Mrs. Burton unpacked all the baskets and told the
children to help themselves. As for her, she sought the roadside and
gazed earnestly for her husband. Wearied at last by hope deferred she
returned to the carriage to find that the boys had eaten all the pie
and cake, drank the milk and ate the sugar which were to have formed
part of some delicious coffee which Mr. Burton was to have made _à la
militaire_, and had battered into shapelessness a box of sardines by
attempting to open it with a stone.
“You bad boys!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Now what will your poor uncle
have to eat when he comes back all tired, hungry, and thirsty and all
because of your mischief, Budge.”
“Why, we haven’t touched the crackers, Aunt Alice,” said Budge.”
They’re what he gave us when we said we was awful hungry, an’ there’s
a whole river full of water to drink, like he told us about when he
thought we was thirsty.”
The information did not seem to console Mrs. Burton, who ventured to
the roadside with the feeling that she could endure it to know that
her husband was starving if she could only see him safe back again. The
moments dragged wearily on, the boys grew restive and then cross, and
at about three in the afternoon, Mr. Burton reappeared. The runaway
had nearly reached home, breaking a shoe _en route_, and his captor
had found it necessary to seek a blacksmith. The horse he rode had
evidently never been broken to the saddle, and many had been the jeers
of the village boys at his rider’s apparent mismanagement. All he knew
now was that he was ravenously hungry.
“And the boys have eaten everything but the bread and crackers,” gasped
Mrs. Burton. “I’ve not eaten a mouthful.”
“Goodness!” exclaimed Mr. Burton, feeling the boys’s waist-belts;
“didn’t they throw anything away?”
“Only down our froats.” said Toddie.
“Then I’ll go to the nearest hotel,” said the disappointed man,” and
get a nice dinner.”
“We’ll go too,” said Budge. “Pie an’ cake an’ all such things don’t
fill people a bit on picnics.”
“Then a little emptiness will be best for you,” said Mr. Burton. “You
remain here with your aunt.”
“Well, hurry up, then,” said Budge. “Here’s the afternoon half gone,
Aunt Alice says, and you haven’t made us a whistle, or taken us in
swimmin’, or let us catch fishes, or throwed big stones in the water
for us, or anythin’.”
Mr. Burton departed with becoming meekness, his nephew’s admonition
ringing in his ears, while the boys hovered solemnly about their aunt
until she exclaimed:
“Why are you acting so strangely, boys?”
“Oh, we feel kind o’s forlorn, an’ we want to be comforted,” said
Budge.
“Will you comfort poor Uncle Harry when he comes back?” asked Mrs.
Burton.
“Why, I heard him once tell you that you were his comfort,” said Budge;
“and comforts oughtn’t to be mixed up if folks is goin’ to get all the
good out of ’em; that’s what papa says.”
Mrs. Burton kissed both nephews effusively and asked them what she
could do for them.
“I doe know,” said Toddie.
Inspiration came to Mrs. Burton’s assistance and she said,
“You may both do exactly as you please.”
“Hooray!” shouted Budge.
“An’ you izhn’t goin’ to say ‘Don’t!’s a single bit?” Toddie asked.
“No.”
“Oh!” exclaimed both brothers, in unison.
Then they clasped hands and walked slowly and silently away. They even
stopped to kiss each other, while Mrs. Burton looked on in silent
amazement.
Was this really the result of not keeping a watchful eye upon children?
The boys rambled quietly along, sat down on a large rock, put their
arms around each other and gazed silently at the scenery. They sat
there until their uncle returned and their aunt pointed out the couple
to him. Then the adults insensibly followed the example set by the
juveniles, and on the banks of the river sweet peace ruled for an hour,
until old Sol, who once stood still to look at a fight but never paused
to contemplate humanity conquered by the tender influences of nature,
warned the party that it was time to return.
“It’s time to go, boys,” said Mr. Burton, with a sigh.
The words snapped the invisible thread that had held the children in
exquisite captivity, and they were boys again in an instant, though
not without a wistful glance at the Eden they were leaving.
“Now, Uncle Harry,” said Budge, “there’ always one thing that’s got to
be done before a picnic an’ a ride is just right, an’ that is for me
to drive the horses.”
“An’ me to hold de whip,” said Toddie.
“Oh, I think you’ve done your whole duty to-day--both of you,” said Mr.
Burton, instinctively grasping his lines more tightly.
“But we don’t,” said Budge, “an’ we know. Goin’ up the mountain papa
always lets us do it an’ he says the horses always know the minute we
take ’em in hand.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Well, here’s a hill; take hold!”
Budge seized the reins, and Toddie took the whip from its socket. The
noble animals at once sustained their master’s statement, for they
began to prance in a manner utterly unbecoming quiet family horses.
Mrs. Burton clutched her husband’s arm, and Mr. Burton prudently laid
his own hand upon the loop of the reins.
The crest of the hill was reached, Mr. Burton took the reins from the
hand of his nephew, but Toddie made one final clutch at departing
authority by giving the off horse a spirited cut. Tom Lawrence would
never own a horse that needed a touch of the whip, though that emblem
of authority always adorned his carriage. When, therefore, this
unfamiliar attention greeted them the horse who was struck became
gloriously indignant, and his companion sympathized with him and the
heels of both animals shot high in the air and then, at a pace which
nothing could arrest, the horses dashed down the rocky, rugged road.
The top of a boulder, whose side had been cleanly washed, lay in the
path of the carriage, and Mr. Burton gave the opposite rein a hasty
twist about his hand as he tried to draw to the side of the road. But
what was a boulder, that equine indignation should regard it? The stone
was directly in front and in line of the wheels. Mrs. Burton prepared
for final dissolution by clasping her husband tightly with one arm,
while with the other she clutched at the reins. The boys started the
negro hymn, “Oh, De Rocky Road to Zion,” the wheels struck the boulder,
four people described curves in air and ceased only when their further
progress was arrested by some bushes at the roadside. The carriage
righted itself and was hurried home by the horses, while a party
of pedestrians, two of whom were very merry and two utterly reticent,
completed their journey on foot, pausing only to bathe scratched
faces at a brookside. And when, an hour later, two little boys had
been prepared for bed, and their temporary guardians were alternately
laughing and complaining over the incidents of the day, a voice was
heard at the head of the stairs, saying:
[Illustration: FURTHER PROGRESS WAS ARRESTED]
“Uncle Harry, are we going to finish the picnic to-morrow? ’Cause we
didn’t get half through to-day. There’s lots of picnicky things that we
didn’t get a chance to think about.”
And another voice shouted:
“An’ letsh take more lunch wif us. I’zhe been awful hungwy all day
long!”
CHAPTER VIII
“Only three more days,” soliloquized Mrs. Burton, when the departure
of her husband for New York and the disappearance of the boys gave
her a quiet moment to herself. “Three more days, and then peace--and
a life-long sense of defeat! And by whom? By two mere infants--in
years. I erred in not taking them singly. When they are together it’s
impossible to take their minds from their own childish affairs long
enough to impress them with larger sense and better ways. But I didn’t
take them singly, and I have talked, and oh--stupidest of women!--I’ve
blundered upon my husband for my principal listener. He does get along
with them better than I do, and the exasperating thing about it is
that he seems to do it without the slightest effort. How is it? They
cling to him, obey him, sit by the roadside for an hour before train
time just to catch the first glimpse of him, while I--am I growing
uninteresting? Many women do after they marry, but I didn’t think
that I”--here Mrs. Burton extracted a tiny mirror from a vase on the
mantel--“that I could be made stupid by marrying a loving old merry
heart like Harry!”
Mrs. Burton scrutinized her lineaments intently. A wistful earnestness
stole into her face as she studied it, and it softened every line.
Suddenly but softly a little arm stole about her neck, and a little
voice exclaimed:
“Aunt Alice, why don’t you always look that way? There! Now you’re
stoppin’ it. Big folks is just like little boys, ain’t they? Mamma
says it’s never safe to tell us we’re good, ’cause we go an’ stop it
right away.”
“When did you come in, Budge? How did you come so softly? Have you been
listening? Don’t you know it is very impolite to listen to people when
they’re not talking to you? Why, where are your shoes and stockings?”
“Why,” said Budge,” I took ’em off so’--so’ to get some cake for a
little tea-party without makin’ a noise about it! You say our little
boots make an awful racket. But say, why don’t you?”
“Why don’t I what?” asked Mrs. Burton, her whole train of thought
whisking out of sight at lightning speed.
“Why don’t you always look like you did a minute ago? If you did, I
wouldn’t ever play or make trouble a bit. I’d just sit still all the
time, and do nothin’ but look at you.”
“How did I look, Budge?” asked Mrs. Burton, taking the child into her
arms.
“Why, you looked as if--as if--well, I don’t ’zactly know. You looked
like papa’ picture of Jesus’s mamma does, after you look at it a long
time an’ nobody is there to bother you. I never saw anybody else look
that way ’xcept my mamma, an’ when she does it I don’t ever say a
word, else mebbe she’ll stop.”
“You can have the cake you came for,” said Mrs. Burton.
“I don’t want any cake,” said Budge, with an impatient movement. “I
don’t want any tea-party. I want to stay with you, an’ I want you to
talk to me, ’cause you’re beginnin’ to look that way again.” Here Budge
nearly strangled his aunt in a tight embrace, and kissed her repeatedly.
“You darling little fellow,” asked Mrs. Burton, while returning his
caresses, “do you know why I looked as I did? I was wondering why you
and Toddie love your Uncle Harry so much better than you love me, and
why you always mind him and disobey me.”
Budge was silent for a moment or two, then he sighed and answered:
“’Cause.”
“Because of what?” asked Mrs. Burton. “You would make me very happy if
you were to explain it to me.”
[Illustration: “WELL,” SAID BUDGE, “CAUSE YOU’RE DIFFERENT.”]
“Well,” said Budge, “’cause you’re different.”
“But, Budge, I know a great many people who are not like each other,
but I love them equally well.”
“They ain’t uncles and aunts, are they?”
“No, but what has that to do with it?”
“And they’re not folks you have to mind, are they?” continued Budge.
“N----no,” said Mrs. Burton, descrying a dim light afar off.
“Do they want you to do things their way?”
“Some of them do.”
“An’ do you do it?”
“Sometimes I do.”
“You don’t unless you want to, do you?”
“No!”
“Well, neither do I,” said Budge. “But when Uncle Harry wants me to do
somethin’, why somehow or other I want to do it myself after a while.
I don’t know why, but I do. An’ I don’t always, when you tell me to.
I love you ever so much when you ain’t tellin’ me things, but when you
are, then they ain’t ever what I want to do. That’s all I know ’bout
it. ’Xcept, he don’t want me to do such lots of things as you do. He
likes to see us enjoy ourselves; but sometimes I think you don’t.
We can’t be happy only our way, an’ our way seems to be like Uncle
Harry’, an’ yours ain’t.”
Mrs. Burton mused, and gradually her lips twitched back into their
natural lines.
“There--you ’re stoppin’ lookin’ that way,” said Budge, sighing and
straightening himself. “I guess I do want the cake an’ the tea-party.”
“Don’t go, Budgie, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, clasping the boy
tightly. “When any one teaches you anything that you want very much to
know doesn’t it make you happy?”
“Oh, yes--lots,” said Budge.
“Well, then, if you try, perhaps you can teach Aunt Alice something
that she wants very much to know.”
“What!” exclaimed Budge. “A little boy teach a grown folks lady? I
guess I’ll stay.”
“I want to understand all about this difference between your Uncle
Harry and me,” continued Mrs. Burton. “Do you think you minded him very
well last summer?”
“That’s too long ago for me to remember,” said Budge “But I didn’t ever
mind him unless I wanted to, or else had to, an’ when I had to an’
didn’t want to I didn’t love him a bit. I talked to papa about it when
we got back home again, an’ he said ’twas ’cause Uncle Harry didn’t
know us well enough an’ didn’t always have time to find out all about
us. Then they had a talk about it--papa and Uncle Harry did, in the
library one day. I know they did, ’cause I was playin’ blocks in a
corner, an’ I just stopped a-playin’ an’ listened to ’em. An’ all
at once papa said, ‘Little pitchers!’s an’ said I’d oblige him very
much if I’d go to the store and buy him a box of matches. But I just
listened a minute after I went out of the room, until I heard Uncle
Harry say he’d been a donkey. I knew he was mistaken about that, so I
went back an’ told him he hadn’t ever been any animals but what’s in
a menagerie, an’ then they both laughed an’ went out walkin’, an’
I don’t know what they said after that. Only Uncle Harry’s been awful
good to me ever since, though sometimes I bother him when I don’t mean
to.”
Mrs. Burton released one arm from her nephew and rested her head
thoughtfully upon her hand. Budge looked up and exclaimed:
“There! You’re looking that way again. Say, Aunt Alice, don’t Uncle
Harry love you lots an’ lots when you look so?”
Mrs. Burton recalled evidence of such experiences, but before she could
say so a small curly head came cautiously around the edge of the door,
and then it was followed by the whole of Toddie, who exclaimed:
“I fink you’s a real mean bruvver, Budgie! De tea-party’s been all
ready for you an’ de cake till I had to eat up all de strawberries to
keep de nasty little ants from eatin’ ’em. I yet up de cabbage-leaf
plate dey was in, too, to keep me from gettin’ hungrier.”
“There!” exclaimed Budge, springing from his aunt’s lap.” That’s just
the way, whenever I’m lovin’ to anybody, somethin’ always goes and
happens.”
“Is that all you care for your aunt, Budge?” asked Mrs. Burton. “Is a
tea-party worth more than me?”
Budge reflected for a moment. “Well,” said he, “didn’t you cry when
your tea-party was spoiled last week on your burfday? To be sure, your
tea-party was bigger than ours, but then you’re a good deal bigger than
we, too, an’ I haven’t cried a bit.”
Mrs. Burton saw the point and was mentally unable to avoid it. The view
was not a pleasant one, and grew more humiliating the longer it was
presented. It was, perhaps, to banish it that she rose from her chair,
brought from a closet in the dining-room some of the coveted cake and
gave a piece to each boy, saying:
“It isn’t that Aunt Alice cares so much for her cake, dears, that she
doesn’t like you to have it between meals, but because it is bad for
little boys to eat such heavy food excepting at their regular meals.
There are grown people who were once happy little children, but now
they are very cross all the while because their stomachs are disordered
by having eaten when they should not, and eating things which are
richer and heavier than their bodies can use.”
“Well,” said Budge, crowding the contents of his mouth into his cheeks,
“we can eat somethin’ plainer an’ lighter to mix up with ’em inside
of us. I should think charlotte-russe or whipped cream would be about
the thing. Shall I ask the cook to fix some?”
“No! Exercise would be better than anything else. I think you had
better take a walk.”
“Up to Hawkshnesht Rock?” Toddie suggested.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Budge. “An’ you come with us, Aunt Alice; perhaps
you’ll look that way again; that way, you know, an’ I wouldn’t like to
lose any of it.”
[Illustration: PRETENDING TO BE HORSES]
Mrs. Burton could not decline so delicate an invitation, and soon the
trio were on the road, Mrs. Burton walking leisurely on the turf by
the side, while the boys ploughed their way through the dust of the
middle of the road, pretending to be horses and succeeding so far as to
create a dust-cloud which no team of horses could have excelled.
“Boys, boys!” shouted Mrs. Burton. “Is no one going to be company for
me?”
“Oh, I’ll be your gentleman,” said Budge.
“I’ll help,” said Toddie, and both boys hurried to their aunt’s side.
“Little boys,” said Mrs. Burton, gently, “do you know that your mamma
and papa have to pay a high price for the fun you have in kicking up
dust? Look at your clothes! They must be sent to the cleaner’s before
they will ever again be fit to wear where respectable people can see
you.”
“Then,” said Budge, “they’re just right to give to poor little boys,
and just think how glad they’ll be! I guess they’ll thank the Lord
’cause we run in the dust.”
“The poor little boys would have been just as glad to have them while
they were clean,” said Mrs. Burton, “and the kindness would have cost
your papa and mamma no more.”
“Well, then--then--then I guess we’d better talk about something
else,” said Budge, “an’ go ’long froo the woods instead of in the
road. Oh--h--h!” he continued, kicking through some grass under the
chestnut-trees by the roadside, “here’s a chestnut! Is it chestnut-time
again already?”
“Oh, no, that’s one of last year’s nuts.”
“H’m!” exclaimed Budge; “I ought to have known that. It’s dreadfully
old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned?”
“Yes; it’s full of wrinkles, don’t you see; like the face of Mrs.
Paynter, an’ you say she’s old-fashioned.”
“Aunt Alice,” said Toddie, “birch-trees izh de only kind dat wearzsh
Sunday clothes, ain’t dey? Deyzh always all in white, like me and
Budgie, when we goes to Sunday-school. Gwacious!” he exclaimed, as he
leaned against one of the birches and examined its outer garments.
“Deyzh Sunday trees awful; dish one is singin’ a song! Dzust
come--hark!”
Though somewhat startled at the range of Toddie’s imagination, and
wondering what incentive it had on the present occasion, Mrs. Burton
approached the tree, and solved the mystery by hearing the breeze
sighing softly through the branches. She told Toddie what caused the
sound, and the child replied:
“Den it’s de Lord come down to sing in it, ’cauzh it’s got Sunday
clothes on. Datsh it, izhn’t it?”
“Oh, no, Toddie; the wind is only the wind.”
“Why I always fought it wazh the Lord a-talkin’, when the wind blowed.
I guesh somebody tolded me so, ’cauzh I fought dat before I had many
uvver finks.”
Up the mountain-road leisurely sauntered Mrs. Burton, while her nephews
examined every large stone, boulder tree and hole in the ground _en
route_.
The top of the hill was gained at last and with a long-drawn “Oh!” both
boys sat down and gazed in delight at the extended scene before them.
Budge broke the silence by asking:
“Aunt Alice, don’t you s’pose dear brother Phillie, up in heaven, is
lookin’ at all these towns, an’ hills, an’ rivers, an’ things, just
like we are?”
“Very likely, dear.”
“Well, then he can see a good deal further than we can. Do our spirits
have new eyes put in ’em when they get up to heaven?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they merely have their sight made better.”
“Why, does spirits take deir old eyes wif ’em to hebben, an’ leave all
de rest part of ’em in de deader?” asked Toddie.
Mrs. Burton realized that she had been too hasty in assuming knowledge
of spiritual physiognomy, and she endeavored to retract by saying:
“Spiritual eyes and bodily eyes are different.”
“Does dust and choo-choo cinders ever get into spirit eyes, an’ make
little boy andzels cry, and growed-up andzels say swear wordsh?” asked
Toddie.
“Certainly not. There’s no crying or swearing in heaven.”
“Then what does angels do with the water in their eyes, when they hear
music that makes ’em feel as if wind was blowin’ fro ’em?” asked Budge.
Mrs. Burton endeavored to change the subject of conversation to one
with which she was more familiar, by asking Budge if he knew that there
were hills a hundred times as high as Hawksnest Rock.
“Goodness, no! Why, I should think you could look right into heaven
from the tops of them. Can’t you?”
“No,” said Mrs. Burton, with some impatience at the result of her
attempt.” Besides, their tops are covered with snow all the time, and
nobody can get up to them.”
“Then the little boy andzels can play snowballs on ’em wifout no cross
mans comin’ up an’ sayin’, ‘Don’t!’” said Toddie.
Mrs. Burton tried again:
“See how high that bird is flying,” she said, pointing to a hawk who
was soaring far above the hill.
“Yes,” said Budge. “He can go up into heaven whenever he wants to,
’cause he’s got wings. I don’t know why birds have got wings and little
boys haven’t.”
“Little boys are already hard enough to find when they’re wanted,” said
Mrs. Burton. “If they had wings they’d always be out of sight. But what
makes you little boys talk so much about heaven to-day?”
“Oh, ’cause we’re up so much closer to it, I suppose,” said Budge,
“when were on a high hill like this.”
“Don’t you think it must be nearly lunching time?” asked Mrs. Burton,
using, in despair, the argument which has seldom failed with healthy
children.
“Certainly,” said Budge. “I always do. Come on, Tod. Let’s go the
quickest way.”
The shortest way was by numerous short cuts, with which the boys seemed
perfectly acquainted. One of these, however, was by a steep incline,
and Budge, perhaps snuffing the lunch-basket afar off, descended so
rapidly that he lost his balance, fell forward, tried to recover
himself, failed, and slipped rapidly through a narrow path which
finally ended in a gutter traversing it.
“Ow!” he exclaimed as he picked himself up, and relieved himself of a
mouthful of mud. “Did you see my back come up an’ me walk down the
mountain on my mouth? I think a snake would be ashamed of himself to
see how easy it was. I didn’t try a bit, I just went slip, slop, bunk!
to the bottom.”
“An’ you didn’t get scolded for dytyin’ your clothes, either.” said
Toddie. “Let’ sing ‘Gloly, Gloly, Hallehelyah.”
The subject of dirt upon juvenile raiment began to trouble the mind
of Mrs. Burton. Could it be possible that children had a natural
right to dirtier clothing than adults, and without incurring special
blame? Was dirtiness sinful? Well, yes--that is, it was disgusting,
and whatever was disgusting was worse in the eyes of Mrs. Burton than
what was sinful. Could children be as neat as adults? Had they either
the requisite sense, perception or the acquired habit of carefulness?
Again Mrs. Burton went into a study of the brownest description, while
the children improved her moments of preoccupation to do all sorts
of things which would have seemed dreadful to their aunt but were
delightful to themselves. At length, however, they reached the Burton
dining-table, and managed a series of rapid disappearances for whatever
was upon it.
[Illustration: BUDGE LOST HIS BALANCE]
“Aunt Alice,” said Budge, after finishing his meal, “what are you
going to do to make us happy this afternoon?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Burton,” I shall allow you to amuse yourselves.
I shall be quite busy superintending the baking. Our cook has only
recently come to us, you know, and she may need some help from me.”
“I fought bakin’ wazh alwaysh in mornin’?” said Toddie. “My mamma says
dat only lazy peoplesh bakesh in affernoonzh.”
“The cook was too busily engaged otherwise this morning, Toddie,” said
Mrs. Burton. “Besides, people bake mornings because they are compelled
to; for, when they put bread to rise overnight, they must bake in the
morning. But there is a new kind of yeast now that lets us make our
bread whenever we want to, within a couple of hours from the time of
beginning.”
“Do you know, Aunt Alice,” said Budge, “that we can bake? We can--real
nice. We’ve helped mamma make pies an’ cakes lots of times, only hers
are big ones an’ ours are baby ones.”
“I suppose I am to construe that remark as a hint that you would like
to help me?” said Mrs. Burton. “If you will do only what you are told,
you may go to the kitchen with me; but listen--the moment you give the
cook or me the least bit of trouble, out you shall go.”
“Oh, goody, goody!” shouted Toddie. “An’ can we have tea-parties on de
kitchen-table as fast as we bake fings?”
“I suppose so.”
“Come on. My hands won’t be still a bittie, I wantsh to work so much.
How many kindsh of pies is you goin’ to make?”
“None at all.”
“Gwacious! I shouldn’t fink you’d call it bakin’-day den. Izhn’t you
goin’ to make noffin’ but ole nashty bwead?”
“Perhaps I can find a way for you to make a little cake or some buns,”
said Mrs. Burton, relenting.
“Well, that would be kind o’s bakin’-day like; but my hands is gettin’
still again awful fasht.”
Mrs. Burton led the way to the kitchen, and the preparation of the
staff of life was begun by the new cook, with such assistance as a
small boy wedged closely under each elbow, and two inquiring faces
hanging over the very edge of the bread-pan.
“That don’t look very cakey,” remarked Budge. “She ain’t put any powder
into it.”
“This kind of bread needs no powder. Baking-powders are used only in
tea-biscuit.”
“When tea-biscuits goes in de oven deysh little bits of flat fings,”
said Toddie--“deysh little bits of flat fings, but when dey comes out
dey’s awful big an’ fat. What makes ’em bake big?”
“That’s what the powder is put in for,” said Mrs. Burton. “They’d be
little, tasteless things if it weren’t for the powder. Bridget, work
some sweetening with a little of the dough, so the boys can have some
buns.”
Both boys escorted the cook to the pantry for sugar, and back again to
the table, and got their noses as nearly as possible under the roller
with which the sugar was crushed, and they superintended the operation
of working it into the dough, and then Mrs. Burton found some very
small pans in the center of which the boys put single buns which they
were themselves allowed to shape. A happy inspiration came to Mrs.
Burton; she brought a few raisins from the pantry and placed one upon
the center of each tiny bun as it was made, and she was rewarded by a
dual shriek of delight.
“Stop, Toddie!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, suddenly noticing that Toddie
was shaping his dough by rolling it vigorously between his hands, as
little boys treat clay while attempting to make marbles. “If you press
your dough hard it will never bake light in the world.”
[Illustration: TWO INQUIRING FACES HANGING OVER THE BREAD-PAN]
“You mean de hot won’t make it grow big?”
“Yes.”
“Datzh too baddy. It’h awful too baddy,” said Toddie “Dere won’t be as
much of ’em to eat. Tell you what--put some powder in it to help the
uvvr swelly stuff.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do any good.”
“Might twy it,” Toddie suggested. “Ah--h--h--Budgie’ makin’ some of my
buns baldheaded.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Burton asked.
“He’s takin’ de raisins off de tops of ’em, an’ dat makes ’em
baldheaded.”
“I was only keepin’ ’em from lookin’ all alike,” explained Budge,
hastily putting the raisins where they could not be affected by any
future proceedings. “Don’t you see, Toddie, you’ll have two kinds of
buns now?”
“Don’t want two kindsh,” cried Toddie. “I’ze a good mind to cut you
open an’ take dem heads back again.”
Budge was reproved by his aunt, and Toddie was pacified by the removal
of raisins from his brother’s buns to his own. Then some of the little
pans were placed in the vacant space in the oven, and during the next
fifteen minutes Mrs. Burton was implored at least twenty times to see
if they weren’t almost done. When, finally baked, Toddie’s were as
small as bullets and about as hard.
“Put some powder in de rest of dem,” pleaded Toddie.
“It wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good,” said Mrs. Burton.
Further entreaties led to a conflict between will and authority, after
which Toddie sulked and disappeared, carrying one of his precious pans
with him. When he returned the baking was over, and the oven-door was
open.
“Izhe a-goin’ to bake dis uvver one any how,” said Toddie, putting
the single remaining pan into the oven and closing the door. “Say,
Aunt Alice,” he continued, his good, nature returning, “now fix dat
tea-party we was goin’ to have wif our own fings. You can come to the
table wif us if you want to.”
“Only, don’t you think she ought to bring somethin’ with her?” asked
Budge. “That’ the way little boys’s tea-parties out of doors always
are.”
Mrs. Burton herself rendered a satisfactory decision upon this question
by making a small pitcher of lemonade: the table was drawn as near the
door as possible, to avoid the heat of the room; Budge escorted his
aunt to the seat of honor, and, when all were seated, he asked:
“Do you think these is enough things to ask a blessin’ over? Sometimes
we do it, an’ sometimes we don’t, ’cordin’ to how much we’ve got.”
Mrs. Burton rapidly framed a small explanatory lecture on the principle
under-lying the custom of grace at meals; but whatever may have been
its merits the boys never had an opportunity of judging, for suddenly
a loud report startled the party, a piece of the stove flew violently
across the room and broke against the wall, the stove-lids shivered
violently and the doors fell open; the poker, which had lain on the
stove, danced frantically, and a small pan of some sort of fat, such
as some cooks have a fancy to be always doing something with but never
do it, was shaken over and its burning contents began to diffuse a
sickening odor. The cook dropped upon her knees, the party arose--Budge
roaring, Toddie screaming, and Mrs. Burton very pale, while the cook
gasped:
“The wather-back’s busted!”
Mrs. Burton disengaged herself from her clinging nephews and approached
the range cautiously. There was no sign of water and the back of the
range was undisturbed; even the fire was not disarranged.
[Illustration: A LOUD REPORT STARTLED THE PARTY]
“It isn’t the water-back,” said Mrs. Burton, “nor the fire. What could
it have been?”
“An’ I belave, mum,” said the cook, “that ’twas the dhivil, savin’
yer prisince; an’, saints presarve us! I ’ve heerd at home as how he
hated dese new ways of cookin’, because dheres no foine place for him
to sit in the corner of, bad luck to him! It was the dhivil, sure, mum.
Did iver ye schmell the loike av that?”
Mrs. Burton snuffed the air, and in spite of the loathsome odor of
burning grease she detected a strong sulphurous odor.
“An’ he went and tookted my last bun wif him too,” complained Toddie,
who had been cautiously approaching the oven in which he had placed
his pan. “Bad ole debbil! I fought he didn’t have noffin but roasted
peoples at hizh tea-parties!”
The whole party was too much agitated and mystified to pursue their
investigations further. The fire was allowed to die out and Mrs. Burton
hurried up-stairs and to the front of the house with the children.
Mr. Burton on his way home was met by his wife and nephews, and heard a
tale which had reached blood-curdling proportions. His descent to the
scene of the disaster was reluctantly consented to by his wife; but he
was unable to discover the cause of the accident, and he succeeded in
getting his hands shockingly dirty. He hurried to his bed-chamber to
wash them, and in a moment he roared from the head of the stairs:
“Boys, which of you has been up here to-day?”
There was no response for a moment; then Budge shouted:
“Not me.”
Mrs. Burton looked inquiringly at Toddie, and the young gentleman
averted his eyes. Then Mr. Burton hurried down-stairs, looked at both
boys and asked: “Why did you meddle with my powder-flask, Toddie?”
“Why--why--why, Aunt Alice wouldn’t put no powder in my buns to make
’em light after I rolled ’em heavy--said ’twouldn’t do ’em no good.
But my papa says ’tain’t never no harm to try, so I dzust wented and
gotted some powder out of your brass bottle dat’s hanging on your gun,
an’ I didn’t say nuffin’ to nobody, ’cauzh I wanted to s’prise ’em.
An’ while I was waitin’ for it to get done, bad ole debbil came an’
hookted it. Guesh it must have been real good else he wouldn’t have
done it, ’cauzh he’s such a smart fief he can steal de nicest fings he
wantsh--whole cakeshop windows full.”
“How did you mix it with the dough?--how much did you take?” Mrs.
Burton demanded.
“Didn’t mix it at all,” said Toddie; “dzush pourded it on de pan azh
full azh I could. You’d fink I’d have to, if you tried to eat one of
my buns dat didn’t have no powder in. Gwacious! wasn’t dey hard? I
couldn’t bite ’em a bit--I dzust had to swallow ’em whole.”
“Umph!” growled Mr. Burton. “And do you know who the devil--the little
devil was that--”
“Harry!”
“Well, my dear, the truth appears to be this; your nephew----”
“Your nephew, Mr. Burton.”
“Well, my--our nephew, put into the oven this afternoon about enough
of gunpowder to charge a six-pounder shell, and the heat of the oven
gradually became too much for it.”
Toddie had listened to this conversation with an air of anxious
inquiry, and at last timidly asked:
“Wazhn’t it de right kind of powder? I fought it wazh, ’cauzh it makes
everyfing else light when it goezh off.”
“Do you suppose your method of training will ever prevail against that
boy’s logic, my dear?” asked Mrs. Burton. “And if it won’t, what will?”
“I won’t put so much in nexsht time,” said Toddie, “’cauzh ’tain’t no
good to twy a fing an’ den have de tryin’ stuff go an’ take de fing
all away from you an’ get so mad as to bweak stoves to bits an’ scare
little boysh an’ Aunt Alishes ’most to deff.”
CHAPTER IX
“Ow, Ow, OW!” was the réveillé of the Burton family on the next
morning, and it was sounded from the room of the juvenile guests.
“Another fight, I suppose,” grunted Mr. Burton in his room, “and as
I’m dressed I might as well go and see which one was whipped and which
ought to be.”
Arrived at his nephew’s room, Mr. Burton found Toddie curled up in the
middle of the bed sound asleep, and his brother with his eyes shut, but
wriggling restlessly.
“What’s the matter, Budge?” asked Mr. Burton.
“My side hurts, where I bunked it, stoppin’ in the gutter, when I slid
down the mountain,” drawled Budge. “An’ the hard part of the bed comes
up to it and hurts it. As soon as I find a soft part of the bed, the
hard part begins to come up through it and hurt me.”
“Suppose you were to turn and lie on the other side?”
“I--why--I--then--I--” stammered Budge, arising slowly and rubbing
his eyes, “then I wouldn’t have any soft parts to look for, an’ I
wouldn’t have anythin’ to do.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Burton muttered, turning abruptly and quitting the room;
“the faculty for hugging misery isn’t born in people; not at all! I’ll
have to tell this to our parson. A lot of good people that need it
might get a sound thrashing over somebody else’s shoulders.”
At the breakfast table Budge ate quietly, but with characteristic
American industry, before he said:
“Aunt Alice, too much tea isn’t good for people, is it?”
“Oh, no! It’s very bad.”
“And one cup is enough for pretty much every one, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“Sometimes my papa drinks three or four.”
“That must be when he has a headache.”
“Oh, yes, ’tis. People need more then, don’t they?”
“Yes, indeed!”
“Well, don’t you think a sideache is as bad as a headache?”
Mrs. Burton guessed the sequel, but refrained from replying.
“An awful sideache,” Budge continued, “when a little boy’s side has
been bumped real hard by a great big mountain side.”
Mrs. Burton bit her upper lip and reached for Budge’s mug, which the
young man accommodatingly pushed toward her, saying:
“And I think when it’s a little boy that’ got to drink it ’cause he’s
sick, there ought to be lots an’ lots of sugar in it, to keep it from
being too strong.”
[Illustration: “TOO MUCH TEA ISN’T GOOD FOR PEOPLE, IS IT?”]
Budge’ mug was filled according to his liking, Mr. Burton’s eyes
dancing over it so busily that they could not stop when Mrs. Burton
accidentally detected them. A few moments of adult silence was the
natural result, and the boys improved the opportunity to disappear
without being questioned; after which Mr. Burton, starting for the
city, gave shortly the monosyllable “No!” in reply to the question
whether he should bring anything home.
Mrs. Burton found herself soon in the depth of another inspection of
her career as a manager of children, and began to realize that she
was as faulty in being too indulgent as she was in being too severe.
Recalling the many tricks of the children to overcome her rules, she
could not remember a single one at which they had not succeeded, and
the realization of this was as mortifying to her sense of duty as it
was to her pride. To be firm when her sense of humor was touched was
a phase of ability of which she found herself to be as destitute as
people usually are; but the existence of such a failing she had never
even imagined before, and it doubled her sense of responsibility
and--humility.
But the latter quality soon was lost in one which comes more naturally,
and is always fully developed--pride. What wouldn’t she have given to
have that breakfast-scene to manage again? To think that she, who had
in every other department of life, discerned sly attempts afar off,
and successfully circumvented them, should have been outwitted by two
very small boys! Oh, for just one more attempt by either of them! Mrs.
Burton instinctively bit her lip until pain caused her to stop. Upon
this, at any rate, she was determined--she would not only prevent
her nephews accomplishing their artfully laid purposes, but she would
explain to them how dishonest such attempts were, and endeavor to shame
them into ingenuousness.
At this instant the sound of a wordy altercation, momentarily growing
livelier, floated up from the kitchen windows, and Mrs. Burton started
to act as arbitrator.
“We want it. That’s why,” was heard from Budge, as Mrs. Burton entered
the kitchen.
“Want what?” asked the mistress of the house.
“Why,” said Budge, his face lighting with the anticipation of
assistance close at hand, “we’ve found a big nest full of eggs in the
grass, a good way off, an’ we want to boil ’em and eat ’em, and I’ve
asked Bridget over an’ over again for a pail to boil ’em in, and all
she says is, ’Niver a bit.’”
“Which she is perfectly right in saying,” said Mrs. Burton,” when, as
I assume from what I overheard as I came in, you did not tell her what
you wanted of the pail.”
“Well, I couldn’t help remembering what you said to Uncle Harry the
other evening--that you had the most utter contempt for people that
always wanted to know about other people’s business. I don’t know what
’utter contempt’s means, but I thought, from the way you said it, you
meant folks who was always askin’ questions about what other folks was
doin’.”
Mrs. Burton hastily took a small pail from a shelf and gave it
to Budge, who walked off while his aunt, recollecting her good
resolutions, retired and wept despairingly. The idea of letting two
small children eat a lot of eggs between meals! No one knew where they
were or how many eggs they had; probably they had built a fire where
no fire should be, and what damage they were threatening to property
and life only Heaven knew. She wished herself within the councils of
Heaven; she committed a dozen frightful heresies while she wondered,
but came back by necessity to the virtue of resignation, for how to
find her nephews would have puzzled a head more experienced than her
own in the ways of small boys.
[Illustration: “WHEN WE COOKED ’EM, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”]
Her morning was spent in vague attempts to do something, and it was
with satisfaction that she beheld her two nephews approaching by a
road which led through woods and fields. The borrowed pail was not
visible, but Mrs. Burton did not notice its absence. Toddie dropped
dejectedly upon a large stone in the back yard, and Budge sauntered
into the sitting-room with the air of a man of the world who had
squeezed life’s orange and found it juiceless.
“You’re safely back, are you?” asked Mrs. Burton, anxious to know what
had happened, but fearing to ask.
“Oh, yes, we’re back, but that don’t do us any good.”
“Why, what can be the matter with my dear little Budge?”
“A good deal,” sighed Budge. “There’ some awful funny things in this
world, Aunt Alice, an’ they ain’t nice either.”
“Tell me all about them, dear.”
“Well, I was awful disappointed to-day. We found sixteen eggs in a
nest, an’ I came all the way home to get somethin’ to cook ’em in,
an’ I carried some salt an’ pepper with me to help ’em to taste nice,
an’ when we cooked ’em, what do you think? There was a little chicken
inside of each of ’em!”
“Dis--gusting!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton.
“I know it is,” said Budge; “an’ I guess you’d have thought so more
yet if you’d been there when we opened ’em. You know how nice eggs
smell when you open ’em? Well, those eggs didn’t even smell good a bit.”
“Let’s talk of something else, Budge,” said Mrs. Burton, instinctively
raising her handkerchief to her nose.
“But I ain’t through yet,” said Budge. “I want to know why the little
chickens didn’t come out of their shell to their mamma, instead of
waiting to bother us?”
“Because you scared their mamma away from them, I suppose, when you
found the nest.”
“Why, no, we didn’t. She just went away. We said ‘Chick, chick,
chick!’s to her, an’ she just ran around an’ cackled, so we s’posed
she’d got through with the nest, and we took what was in it to keep ’em
from bein’ spoiled. Papa says eggs always spoil when they lie out in
the sunshine. What do you s’pose that poor hen mamma’ll think when she
comes walkin’ along that way some day an’ sees all her dear little
children lyin’ around mussed up in the grass?”
“She will probably think that some meddlesome little boys have
been along that way, and haven’t cared for anything or anybody but
themselves.”
Budge looked up quickly into his aunt’ face, but finding neither humor
nor sympathy there he sighed deeply and started to rejoin his brother.
“Budge!” said Mrs. Burton.
The child arrested his steps, and looked back inquiringly.
“When you want anything, as, for instance, that pail to boil eggs in,
the proper way to do is to ask for it honestly and if some grown person
refuses to give it to you, you should be satisfied with the reasons
they give and make no trouble about it. You ought to love what is right
so much that you will be ashamed to get around it in some underhand
way.”
“Why, ’tain’t any underhand way to say just what I think, is it?” Budge
asked. “Papa says folks ought always to be honest, and say just exactly
what they mean, an’ I’m sure I always do it, but I like to say things
the way that I think folks listen to ’em best. Ain’t that the way that
you do?”
Mrs. Burton could not say “No,” and would not say “Yes,” so she walked
off and left her nephew master of the field, from which he himself soon
retired in response to repeated shouts of “Budgie!” from his brother.
“Oh, Budgie,” exclaimed Toddie, as the former rejoined him,” izhe got
him! Oh, izhe got him! Ain’t you glad?”
“Who you got?”
“Got Terry!” exclaimed Toddie. “Got doggie Terry!”
“Ow!” shouted Budge, clapping his hands and dancing about. “That’s the
nicest thing I ever heard of! Just won’t we have fun? How did you catch
him?”
“Why, he wazh asleep, an’ I dzust tied a skring to his collar, an’
tied de uvver end to a little tree, an’ dere he is. See him?”
The brothers moved towards the dog; the doomed animal, after one
frantic tug at his bonds, recognized the inevitable and shrank
whimperingly against the tree.
“Poor doggie’s sick, Tod,” said Budge. “We’ll have to play doctor to
him an’ make him well. I think he ought to go to bed, don’t you?”
“Yesh,” said Toddie, “an’ have a night-gown on, like we do when we’s
sick.”
“That’s so. You run an’ get yours for him. He needs a little one, you
know. I guess you’d better take off your shoes, so’ not to disturb Aunt
Alice.”
Toddie cast his shoes and vanished, returning speedily with a robe in
which the dog Terry, not without much remonstrance, was soon enveloped;
after which Budge lifted him tenderly in his arms, saying,--
“His night-gown hangs down an awful lot, I think. We’d better pin up
the bottom part, like nurse did for the sister-baby the other day.”
“Hazhn’t got no pins,” said Toddie.
“Then we’ll tie it up with a string. Besides, when it’s tied up he
can’t get his foots out, an’ forget what a poor little sick doggie he
is.”
In another moment the superabundant skirts were folded up and tied
tightly around the poor animal’s body, while Toddie, who was having
great trouble to hold the stout little beast, exclaimed:
“Gwacious! the fwont end of him is awful well! See how it keeps not
keepin’ still. I don’t fink his night-gown collar looksh very nysh,
does you?”
“No,” said Budge,” and he’ll go right out of it if we don’t make it
look nicer. I’ll put string around that too--there! I want to know if
anybody ever saw a lovelier-lookin’ sick dog than that? Where’ll we put
him to bed now?”
“Let’s wock him,” Toddie suggested. “Datsh what we likes when we’s
sick.”
“Then we got to take him in the house,” said Budge, “’cause there ain’t
any way of makin’ believe rockin’-chair. Come on!”
Quietly the couple sneaked into the house and up to their room. Then
Budgie resigned his precious burden a moment to Toddie’ care while he
went in search of a rocking-chair, with which he shortly returned.
“There!” said he, taking the invalid and seating himself, “this is
something like playin’ doctor. But I wonder what kind of medicine he
ought to have?--pills or powders?”
“Or running stuff out of a bottle?” suggested Toddie.
“That’s so,” said Budge. “I guess it ’pends on what kind of medicine
we’ve got. We might make him some nice pills out of soap.”
“I know,” said Toddie, going into the closet, bringing from a corner an
old winter cloak trimmed with beads, and picking some of the beads from
it; “these is splendid for pills. I took some of ’em de uvver day when
I wazsh playin’ doctor an’ sick boy too, an’ dey didn’t taste bad a
bit.”
“All right,” said Budge, “pick some off.” His order was obeyed, and
soon the beads were being carefully dropped, one by one, down the dog’s
throat, Budge opening the animal’s mouth with finger and thumb as he
had seen his father do. Soon, however, the dog’s jaws closed tightly.
“I want to make him well,” said Toddie. “I ain’t doctored him a bit
yet.”
“Well, I hardly know what you can do for him,” said Budge, “for he
won’t take any more pills. Perhaps there’s a sore place on his head
somewhere that you might put a stickin’-plaster on; but you haven’t got
any plaster. Oh, I’ll tell you what; you can get a postage-stamp out of
Uncle Harry’s desk--that’ll do for a stickin’-plaster first-rate.”
“I wantsh to wock him,” said Toddie, “’ides doct’rin’ him.”
“I’m afraid ’twon’t be best to move him just now,” said Budge, scanning
the face of the patient with solicitude.
“I tell you what,” said Toddie, with the air of a man to whom had come
a direct inspiration “letsh stop makin’ b’lieve for a minute, till I
get hold of him; den he can be made into a sick boy again.”
“All right,” said Budge, though evidently against his will. “I s’pose
I’ve got to, so that all the doctors get a chance at him. But say,
papa says, mixin’ doctors kills sick folks. Don’t you think we’d
better talk it all over again? ’Twould be dreadful if Uncle Harry’s
dear little dog was made dead, you know.”
“All right,” said Toddie, “an’ I’ll hold him while we talk about it.
I won’t give him a single bittie of medshin ’til we know dzust what he
ought to have.”
“Mebbe different people’s arms make a difference to sick folks,”
suggested Budge, holding the patient still more tenderly, and oblivious
to Toddie’s outstretched arms.
“Dzust see how sad he looks at you!” said Toddie. “I fink his eyes is
a-sayin’, ‘Oh, I’ll die if dat dear Doctor Toddie don’t nurse me.’ I
shouldn’t fink you could be so dreadful cruel, Budgie.”
Budge reluctantly relinquished the patient, on whom Toddie bestowed a
squeeze so affectionate that the dog howled piteously, and struggled to
free himself.
“There!” said Budge,” what did I tell you. You’re the kind of doctor
that don’t agree with him, you see.”
“’Tain’t me,” said Toddie. “I guesh it’ de medshin takin’ effec’. Dem
beads--pills, I mean--can’t get into his bonesh an’ mushels wifout
skwatchin’ him.”
“I ’pect that’s ’cause we forgot to give ’em to him in somethin’ nice,
like papa gives us our medicine.”
[Illustration: BUDGE AND TODDIE PLAYING DOCTOR]
“Letsh give him somefin’ nysh now!” said Toddie, “Mebbe it can find
de medshin, an’ dey’ll go along nysh togevver, dzust like two little
budders.”
“All right. What’ll it be?”
“Cake.”
“Who’ll ask Aunt Alice for it?” Budge asked. “I guess you’d better; I
did, last time we wanted cake. Anyhow, I was getting it without askin’,
an’ I promised her I’d always ask after that.”
“Den you ought to begin, right stwaight away,” said Toddie, “elsh mebbe
you’d forget. I know what you wantsh! You wants me to ask so’s you can
get poor sick baby again while I go.”
“Well,” said Budge, somewhat abashed, “I suppose I’ll have to do it.”
He departed, and returned within two or three minutes with a large
piece of fruit cake and a radiant countenance.
“I tell you, Tod, just don’t folks get paid for bein’ good? I was
going down to ask Aunt Alice, just as good as could be, and then I
couldn’t find her anywhere in the house, so there wasn’t anythin’ to
do but go get the cake myself. I don’t believe we’d have got such a big
piece, either, if she’d been there; now I know what that big thing on
the Sunday-school wall means, ‘Wirtue is its own reward.’”
“Gwacious Peter!” exclaimed Toddie, extending his hand for the cake;
“we dassent give him all dat! ’Twould make him dweam dweadful fings.”
Here Toddie put the cake to the dog’s mouth, and the animal eagerly
bit at it. “Goodnish! I forgot dat dogs could open moufs bigger dan
babies. I fink he’s got more now dan’ going to agree wif him. G’way!”
continued Toddie, as the dog again snapped at the cake. “We’s got to
put dis where he can’t see it, ’less he’ll be cryin’ for it all de
time.” And Toddie hastily crowded a large portion of the remainder into
his own mouth.
“Oh--h--h!” exclaimed Budge, moving to the rescue of the remainder of
the cake. “You ain’t took no medicine, an’ you’ll dream of more cows
than you ever saw. Give me it!”
“Um--m--m--ugh--mow--moo-um--guh!” mumbled Toddie with difficulty, as
he tightened his grasp on the remainder of the cake.
“Oh, give it to me, Tod!” pleaded Budge. “I’ll eat it, and then I’ll
dream ’bout the same cows that you do. Don’t you know how often you
wish I’d dream the same things you do, and get mad ’cause I don’t?”
Toddie indulged in some spasmodic final gulps, coughed violently, and
said:
“It’s dwefful to dweam about cows, an’ I loves you, ’cauzh you’s my
dee budder Budgie, an’ I don’t want you to dweam dwefful fings.”
Here Toddie hastily crammed most of the remainder of the cake into his
mouth, and handed the rest to his brother, saying:
“That’ll make--you--dweam ’bout two or--or free cows, an’ so it’ll let
you get into de dweam wifout such drefful times as Izh got to have.”
Budge might, perhaps, have recognized in fitting terms this evidence
of brotherly forethought, but his mouth found other occupation for a
moment. Meanwhile, the patient was wriggling; by a desperate effort he
freed himself from Toddie’s embrace, and fell upon the floor, where he
rolled frantically about with many contortions and howls.
“Oh, he’s got a convulsion! I guess he must be havin’ a stomach tooth
come,” said Budge. “What can we do?”
“Pallygollic,” Toddie suggested.
“We ain’t got none,” said Budge. “Tell you what. Let’s make b’lieve
he’s a dog a minute, an’ throw water on him. That’ what they do to
dogs in fits.”
“Den we’d get Aunt Alice’s new carpet all wet,” said Toddie. “Let’s put
him in de bafftub.”
“Just the thing!” said Budge, picking up the animal while Toddie ran
before and turned on the water. The dog was dropped into the tub, where
he naturally redoubled his efforts to free himself; noting which, Budge
remarked:
“Say, Tod, it’s hot water they set babies in when the tooths bother
’em. We’ll make b’lieve he’s a baby again, and turn on t’other faucet.”
Toddie quickly opened the hot-water faucet.
“There--he’s gettin’ better,” said Budge, observing the animal with
professional closeness. “I guess he can come out now. OW!--that water’s
awful hot! How are we goin’ to get him out?”
Toddie leaned over the edge of the tub and seized the dog by the head.
The animal struggled violently. Toddie redoubled his exertions, lost
his balance, and tumbled headlong into the tub himself, from which he
speedily scrambled, howling violently, while Budge snatched the animal
and landed him on the bathroom floor.
“Oh, de--oh!” cried Toddie.
“Does it hurt you awful, dear little brother?” asked Budge tenderly.
“No! De hurtzh gone off of me, but I gotted a lot of water in my
mouf, and it washed out all de taste of de cake. I fink it’ too
good-for-nuffin mean for anyfing.”
“Well, I guess you’d better go sit out in the sun and dry yourself,”
said Budge, “and change the poor doggie’s clothes for him.”
“Wantsh my clozhezh tschanged,” sobbed Toddie.
“Come on, then,” said Budge, leading the way back to his own room, and
dragging the bundle of wet dog behind him. “There!” said he, closing
the door, “you dress yourself and I’ll fix the dog.”
Carefully untying the strings that confined the animal, but taking the
precaution to tie one end to Terry’s collar and the other to a chair,
he removed the night-gown, brought a brush, comb, and bottle of cologne
from his aunt’s room, and began to brush the dog’ coat, pouring on
cologne without stint. The animal was too grateful to be on his feet
again to offer any serious remonstrance, until suddenly Budge poured
considerable cologne upon his head; the liquid found its way into
Terry’s eyes, and the spirits put the brute in such pain that he began
to dash frantically about the room, dragging the light chair after
him. Budge had left the door open, and through this dashed Terry, and
down the stairs. The top of the chair struck the stair-rail, and at
once resolved itself into its original parts; the remainder flew down
the steps after the dog, and executed a rapid semicircle in air in the
lower hall as the dog flew around the newel post and encountered a
handsome cabinet hat-rack on the way, to the great damage of the polish.
[Illustration: DOWN THE STAIRS, DASHED TERRY]
Then, still obeying the inexorable demands of the string, whose other
end was attached to the collar of the dog, it meandered through the
parlor, leaving a leg with the piano pedal as a memento of a trifling
difference, attempted to ascend the chimney through the fireplace but
succeeded only so far as to seriously compromise the positions of the
andirons, lodged between the legs of an antique table to the complete
prostration of the table itself, and leaving the seat of the chair
among the table’s varied contents, struck a jardinière, which came down
with a ceramic crash, flew to the dining-room, into a chair, upon and
across the table, taking with it a cover with which for a moment or two
it was seriously mixed, and went down the kitchen stairs, where it met
Mrs. Burton returning from a conference with the greengrocer. As the
chair was one of special lightness and exceeding cost, Mrs. Burton was
naturally desirous of interviewing Terry; but the animal had evidently
formed plans which he did not intend should be thwarted, so with a
vicious snap he eluded her, dashed through the kitchen and sought the
shady solitude of the forest.
Intuition and experience combined to suggest to Mrs. Burton the
original causes of Terry’s excitement; so, waiting only a few moments,
that she might be perfectly calm and righteously judicial, she started
in search of the culprits. They were not in their room, though a heap
of wet clothes and a general displacement of everything proved that
they had been there since the chambermaid had put the room in order. A
further search disclosed Toddie upon Mrs. Burton’s own bed, so soundly
asleep that she had not the heart to wake him. Promptly assuming that
Budge was the only culprit, she continued her search, and found him
leaning out of a window in a little observatory on the top of the
house. The rustle of his aunt’s dress aroused him, and, bending upon
her a look of exquisite yet melancholy sensitiveness, he said:
“Aunt Alice, everybody must die, mustn’t they?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Burton, “and if you had paid the debt of nature
before destroying my pretty chair your earthly influence might have
been less injurious than it has been this morning.”
“But, Aunt Alice,” said Budge, absorbed in his own thoughts, “do you
see that graveyard way off yonder? It’s awful full of dead folks, ain’t
it?”
“Very,” said Mrs. Burton; “but what they have to do with a ruined chair
I am unable to see.”
“Well, what I want to know,” said Budge, still oblivious to everything
but the matter that was occupying his mind--“what I want to know is,
who’s goin’ to throw flowers into the last man’ grave, an’ who’s
goin’ to make the hole that he’s put into? What if he should be me?
I’d feel awful bothered to know how I’d have any funeral at all. I
know what I’d do--I’d just pray the Lord to take me straight up to
heaven, like he did with the good Elijah. Say, Aunt Alice, what drawed
the chariot that Elijah went up in? Did them ravens do it that used to
bring him his lunch?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Burton, “but no chariot would ever have come
for him if he had been in the habit of breaking up chairs and tying
pieces of them to dogs.”
“Why,” said Budge, beginning to comprehend the drift of his aunt’s
remarks, “I didn’t tie any piece of any chair to any dog. I tied all
of Terry to a chair, and was bein’ as nice to him as you ever was to
me, an’ all of a sudden he ran away with the whole of the chair. You
remember that story in the Bible about some bad devils goin’ into a
lot of pigs an’ makin’ ’em jump over the side of a mountain an’ into
the ocean? Well, I think some of them same chaps must have got into
Terry.”
[Illustration: “WHY AUNT ALICE! HOW DID YOU UPSET THAT TABLE?”]
Mrs. Burton’s faith in this demonological theory was not strong,
but she felt that her wrath had deserted her, so to escape further
humiliation she descended to the parlor. The scene which presented
itself to her gaze was one to which womanly language could not do
justice, and her hurried attempts to repair the damage were not
sufficient to prevent the reawakening of her anger. While still in the
depths of her indignant despair, her nephew Budge entered the room and
exclaimed honestly:
“Aunt Alice, how did you upset that table and break that handsome great
big vase of make-believe flowers?”
Mrs. Burton instinctively rose to her feet, assumed a conventional
attitude of Lady Macbeth, and shook a forefinger at Budge in a menacing
manner that caused the child to shudder, as she uttered the single
word--
“Tomorrow!”
CHAPTER X
“The beginning of the end!” was the remark with which Mr. Burton broke
a short silence at his breakfast-table, on the last day of the time for
which his little visitors had been invited.
Mrs. Burton looked meek and made no reply.
“Budders,” said Mr. Burton, addressing his nephews, “do you feel
reconstructed?”
“Huh?” asked Budge.
“Do you feel mentally and morally reconstructed?” repeated the uncle.
“Reconwhichted?” asked Budge.
“That’s an awful big wyde,” remarked Toddie, through a mouthful of
oatmeal porridge. “It’s like what the minister says in chych sometimes,
an’ makes me want to play around in the seat.”
“Reconstructed; made over again,” explained Mr. Burton.
“Why, no,” said Budge, after looking at his hands and feeling for his
stomach, as if to see if any radical physical change had taken place
without his knowledge. “Maybe we’re a little bigger, but we can’t see
ourselves where we grow.”
“Don’t you feel as if you wanted to see that baby sister again?” asked
Mrs. Burton, endeavoring to change the subject. “Don’t you want to go
back to her and stay all the time?”
“I don’t,” said Toddie, “’cauzh dere ain’t no dog at our house, an’
tryin’ to catch dogs is fun, ’cept when dey never want to be catched
at all, like Terry is lotsh of de time.”
“I mean, haven’t you learned, since you’ve been here, to be a great
deal better than you ever were before?” asked Mr. Burton.
“I guesh so,” Toddie replied. “I’zhe said more prayersh an’ sung more
little hymns dan I ever did in all my life before. An’ I ain’t pulled
off any more hind hoppers from gwasshoppers sinsh Aunt Alice told me it
wazh bad. I only pulls off front hoppers now. Dey’zh real little, you
know--dere’ only a little bittie of ’em to feel hurted.”
“How is it with you, Budge?” asked Mr. Burton. “Do you feel as if you
had learned to act from different motives.”
“What’s a motive?” asked Budge; “anythin’ like a loco-motive? I never
feel like them, ’xcept when I run pretty hard; then I puff like
everythin’, only steam don’t come out of me, but I always think there’s
an engine inside of me, goin’ punk! punk! like everything. Papa says
it’s only a heart--a little bit of a boy’s heart, but if that’s all, I
should think a big man’ heart could pull a whole train of cars.”
“You haven’t learned to bear in mind the subject of conversation. But
have you become able to comprehend the inner significance of things?”