“Like oatmeal powwidge?” Toddie suggested.
“Have you realized that a master mind has been exerting a reformatory
influence upon you?”
“Izh master mind an’ ’must mind’s de same fing?” asked Toddie. “We
wasn’t doin’ noffin’ ’cept eatin’ our brekspups. Don’t see what we’s
got to mind about.”
“Have you always unhesitatingly obeyed your aunt’s commands, moved
thereunto by a sense of her superiority by divine right?”
“Now, Harry!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, who during this conversation had
been making mute appeals which her husband could not have resisted had
he seen them, and knowing of the existence of which he had carefully
kept his eyes averted from her face.
“If you don’t stop tormenting those poor children with stupid sections
of dictionary you yourself shall realize my superiority by divine
right, for I’ll take them up-stairs and away from you.”
“Only one more question, my dear,” said Mr. Burton, “and I’ll have
done. I want only to ask the boys if they’ve noticed any conflicts of
heredity, and, if so, which side has triumphed?”
“I guess you are tryin’ to play preacher, like Tod said,” remarked
Budge.
“Oh!” said Mr. Burton, blushing a little under a merry laugh from his
wife. “Well, how does it affect you?”
“It makes me feel like I do in church when I wish Sunday-school time
would hurry up,” said Budge.
“Me too,” assented Toddie.
“You can run away and play now,” said Mrs. Burton, seeing that the
children’s plates were empty.
The boys departed, the dog Terry apparently leading the way, yet being
invisible when the children reached the open air.
“You needn’t have humiliated me before the children,” said Mrs. Burton.
Mr. Burton hastened to make the “amende honorable” peculiar to the
conjugal relation and said:
“Don’t fear, my dear. They didn’t understand.”
“Oh, didn’t they?” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “I wish all my adult friends
had as quick perceptions as those boys. They may not understand big
words, but tones and looks are enough for them.”
“Why?” said Mr. Burton, “they scarcely looked up from their plates.”
“Never mind,” replied the lady, delighted at an opportunity to reassert
her superiority in at least one particular. “Children--boys, are more
like women than like men. Their unblunted sensibilities are quick;
their intuition is simply angelic. Would that their other qualities
were also so perfect.”
“I’m very sorry, my dear,” said Mr. Burton, temporarily subjugated,
“that I said a word to them, and when you are ready to kneel upon the
stool of repentance I’ll depart and leave you alone.”
“You’ll have no occasion to go,” said Mrs. Burton. “I’ve confessed
already--to them, and a single confession is enough. I rather like the
operation, when, for my reward, I receive sympathy instead of sarcasm.”
“Again, I ask forgiveness,” said Mr. Burton; “and having made a
fellow-penitent of myself, can’t I have good in return for my evil, and
know what a fellow-sufferer has learned from experience?”
“Just this,” said Mrs. Burton; “that nobody is fit to take the care of
children excepting the children’s own parents.”
Mr. Burton dropped his fork and exclaimed:
“My dear, that’s better than an experience. It’s a revelation.”
Mrs. Burton regained her pleasantness of countenance and said:
“I think that only one of kindred blood can comprehend an adult----”
“Unless modest enough to go out of self for a little while,” suggested
Mr. Burton.
Mrs. Burton opened her eyes very wide and dropped her lip a little, but
recovered herself to finish her sentence by “And I think it is ever so
much harder to comprehend children, with their imperfect natures that
never develop harmoniously, and that can but seldom express themselves
intelligently.”
“I never noticed that the boys were at a loss to express themselves,
when they wanted anything,” said Mr. Burton.
“That sounds just like a man,” said Mrs. Burton, fully herself again.
“As if children had no desires and yearnings excepting for material
things! What do you suppose it means when Budge sits down in a corner,
goes into a brown study, and, when asked what the matter is, drawls
‘Nothin’!’s in a tone that indicates that a very considerable something
is puzzling his young head? What does it mean when Toddie asks his
half-funny, half-pathetic questions about matters too great for his
comprehension, and looks as wistful as ever after he is answered? Do
you suppose they care for nothing but food and play?”
Mr. Burton felt humbled, and his looks evinced the nature of his
feeling.
“You are right, little woman. I wish I might have consulted you before
I took the boys in hand last summer.”
“And I’m very glad you didn’t,” said Mrs. Burton; “for you did a
great deal better with them than you could have done if I had been
your adviser. There is some of the same blood in both of you, and you
succeeded in many points where I have blundered. Oh, if I had but
known it all before they came! How much I might have spared them--and
myself!”
Mr. Burton hastened to extend to his wife some mute sympathy.
“They’re going to-day,” said Mrs. Burton, finding something in her eyes
that required the attention of her kerchief--“just as I’ve learned what
I should be to them! They’re angels, in spite of their pranks, and it’s
always so with angels’s visits; one never discovers what they are until
they spread their wings to depart.”
“This particular pair of angels can be borrowed for an extra day, I
suppose, if you desire it!” suggested Mr. Burton.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Burton, “that’s a brilliant idea! I’ll go tell
Helen that I don’t think she’s yet fit to have them back again.”
“And I,” said Mr. Burton, preparing to go to the city, “will try to
persuade Tom into the same belief, though I know he’ll look like a man
being led to execution.”
The Burtons left the house together a few minutes later, and the boys
returned soon after. Being unable to find their aunt, they descended
to the kitchen, and made a formal demand upon the cook for saucers,
spoons, sugar and cream.
“An’ fhot are yees up to now?” asked Bridget.
“You’ll see, after you give us the things,” said Budge.
“Deysh the reddesht, biggesht ones I ever saw anywheresh,” Toddie
exclaimed.
“I don’t want ye to be takin’ the things way off to nobody but the
dhivil knows where,” said Bridget. “Fhot if yees should lose one of the
shpoons an’ the misthress ’ud think I sthole it?”
“Oh, we won’t go anywheres but ’cept under the trees in the back yard,”
pleaded Budge. “An’ there’s all the nice berries spoilin’ now while
you’re botherin’ about it. My papa says berries ought always to be
eaten just when they’re picked.”
“Av it’s only berries, I s’pose yees can have the things,” muttered
Bridget, bringing from a closet a small tray, and covering it with the
desired articles.
“Give us another saucer, an’ we’ll bring you some,” said Budge,
“’cause you’re nice to us. We’ll need more sugar, though, if we’re
goin’ to do that.”
In the presence of flattery Bridget showed herself only a woman. She
replaced the teacup of sugar with a well-filled bowl; she even put a
few lumps on top of the powdered article which filled the bowl, and as
the boys departed she remarked to the chambermaid that “that bye Budge
is a rale gintleman. I’ve heard as how his father’s folks came from the
ould counthry, an’ mark me words, Jane, they’re from the nobility.”
A few minutes later Mrs. Burton emerged from the sick-room of her
sister-in-law. She had meant to stay but a moment, but Mrs. Lawrence’s
miniature had, as a special favor, been placed in Mrs. Burton’s arms,
and it was so wee and helpless, and made such funny little noises,
and blinked so inquiringly, and stretched forth such a diminutive
rose petal of a hand, that time had flown in apprehension, and sent
the nurse to recapture the baby and banish the visitor. And Mrs.
Burton was sauntering leisurely homeward, looking at nothing in
particular, touching tenderly with the tip of her parasol the daisies
and buttercups that looked up to her from the roadside, stopping even
to look inquiringly upon a solitary ewe, who seemed solicitous for the
welfare of a lamb which playfully evaded her. Suddenly Mrs. Burton
heard a howl, a roar, and a scream inextricably mixed. She immediately
dropped all thought of smaller beings, for she recognized the tones of
her nephews. A moment later, the noise increasing in volume all the
while, both boys emerged from behind a point of woods, running rapidly,
and alternately howling and clapping their hands to their mouths. Mrs.
Burton ran to meet them, and exclaimed:
“Boys, do stop that dreadful noise. What is the matter?”
“Ow--um--oh!” screamed Budge.
“Wezh been--ow!--eatin’ some--some--ow!--some pieces of de bad
playsh,” said Toddie, “wif, oh, oh!--cream an’ sugar on ’em. But dey
wazh dzust as hot as if noffin’ was on ’em.”
“Come back and let aunty see about it,” said the mystified woman, but
Budge howled and twitched away, while Toddie said:
“Wantzh papa an’ manma! Deyzh had all little boy bovvers an’ knowsh
what to do. Wantsh to get in our ice-housh an’ never go--ow!--out of
it.”
The screaming of the children had been heard farther than Mrs. Burton
imagined it could be, for a sound of heavy and rapid footsteps
increased behind her and, turning, she beheld the faithful Mike, Mr.
Lawrence’ gardener-coachman.
“Fhot is it, dharlin’?” asked Mike, looking sharply at each boy, and
picking a red speck from the front of Toddie’s dress. “Murther alive!
red peppers!”
Mike dashed across the street, vaulted a fence, and into an inclosed
bit of woodland, ran frantically about among the trees, stopped in
front of one and attacked it with his knife, to the astonishment of
Mrs. Burton, who imagined the man had lost his senses. A few seconds
later he returned with a strip of bark, which he cut into small pieces
as he ran.
“Here, ye dharlin’ little divils,” said he, cramming a piece of the
bark into each boy’ mouth, “chew that. It’s slippery elm; it’ll sthop
the burnin’. Don’t the byes play that trick on the other byes at school
often an’ often, an’ hasn’t me sister’s childher been nearly murthered
by it? An’ fhot ought your father do to yees for throyin’ to shwally
such thrash? Oh, but wouldn’t I loike to foind the dhivils that put
yees up to it! Who was they? Tell me, so I can sind them afther their
father, where it’s hotter than pepper.”
[Illustration: A RED PEPPER EXPERIENCE]
“How did you come to eat red peppers?” asked Mrs. Burton, as the
children escaped slowly from their pain.
“Why, a boy once told us they was strawberries,” cried Budge, “an’
to-day we saw a lot where men was spoilin’ a garden to build a house,
an’ we asked ’em if we could have ’em, an’ they said yes, an’ we
brought ’em all back in a piece of paper, an’ didn’t bite one of ’em,
’cause we wanted to eat ’em all in a littel tea-party like gentlemen,
and the first one I chewed--ow! That poor rich man in the fire--I know
just how he felt when he begged Abraham to have his tongue cooled with
a drop of water.”
“Poor old rich man didn’t have all de fire in hizh mouf, ’pectin’ dat
’twazh goin’ to be strawbewwies,” sobbed Toddie.
“There wasn’t no dear old Mike to go an’ get him slippery elm, either,”
said Budge. “Soon’s we come back home to stay, Mike, I’m goin’ to put
dirt in the stable-pump, just to be real good about stoppin’ when you
tell me to.”
“An’ I,” said Toddie, “’zh goin’ to make you a present all alone by
myseff. I don’t know yet what it’ll be. I guess it’ll have to be a
’prise. What would you like best?--a gold watch or a piece of peanut
candy?”
Between two presents of such nearly equal value Michael, the
benefactor, found some difficulty in deciding, and he walked away with
that application of fingers to head which is peculiar to many persons
when in a quandary. Meanwhile Mrs. Burton led the children toward her
own house, saying:
“What can we do to-day that can be extremely nice, little boys? Mamma
expects you home to-morrow, and Aunt Alice wants to make your last day
a very happy one.”
“To-morrow!” exclaimed Budge, apparently oblivious to all else his aunt
had said. “I thought we were going home to-day!”
“So you were, dear,” said Mrs. Burton; “but you didn’t seem to be in
any hurry, and I couldn’t bear to let you go so soon. Did you really
want to go to-day?”
“Why, I’ve been thinkin’ about it an’ countin’ days till to-day ever
since we’ve come,” said Budge. “Sometimes it seemed as if I’d burst if
I couldn’t be back home again, but I tried to be real good about it,
’cause papa said ’twould be better for the sister-baby and mamma if we
stayed away. Sometimes in the night-time, I’ve cried because I wasn’t
in my own little bed.”
“You poor dear boy,” said Mrs. Burton, stopping to kiss Budge, “why
didn’t you tell Aunt Alice when you were so unhappy?”
“You couldn’t do me any good,” said Budge. “Nobody could but my
papa or mamma. An’ then I don’t like to tell what’ hurtin’ my
heart--somethin’ in my throat makes me hate to tell such things.”
“Haven’t you had a pleasant time at our house? When you’ve not been
doing whatever you liked, haven’t Uncle Harry and I been trying to make
you happy?”
“Oh, yes. But some folks know just what we like, and some other folks
know what they want us to like; and the first some folks are my papa
and mamma, an’ the other some folks are you an’ Uncle Harry. You’ve
done some real nice things for us, though, an’ I’m goin’ to ask mamma
to let us invite you to our house, an’ then I’ll show you how to take
care of little boys an’ make ’em happy!”
“You come to vizhit at our housh,” said Toddie,” an you can have cake
between mealsh, an’ make mud-pies whenever you want to, no matter if
youzh got your very besht clozhezh on. An’ I won’t ever say ‘Don’t!’s
to you one single time!”
“An’ you shall have your own mamma come every day to frolic an’ cut
up with you,” said Budge. “I wish you had a papa; we’d have him too!”
“Aunt Alice,” said Budge, “how do big folks get along without papas and
mammas?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, dear,” said Mrs. Burton, remembering how
helpless she found herself when her husband first took her from beneath
her mother’s wing.
“Don’t they ever have somethin’ to tell ’em, an’ then feel like
somebody else when they find they ain’t there to tell ’em to?”
“I suppose some do,” said Mrs. Burton, recalling some periods of her
own life when she longed for a confidant who should be neither lover
nor friend.
“Don’t you think maybe they look all around then, an’ think the nicer
things are the lonelier they are?” continued Budge.
“Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Burton, with a kiss.
“Musht be awful not to have anybody to ask for pennies when youzh
lonesome an’ don’t know what else to do,” said Toddie.
“An’ not to have anybody hold you to keep from kind o’s tumblin’
to pieces when you’ve seen enough of everythin’, an’ done enough of
everythin’, an’ don’t know what’ goin’ to happen next, an’ wish it
wouldn’t happen at all,” said Budge. “Say, Aunt Alice, folks don’t
ever have to feel that way when they get to be angels, do they?”
“No, indeed!”
“Well, do you think it makes folks in heaven happy to have a
father--the Lord, you know, when there ain’t anythin’ to ask Him for?
If they’re happy the whole time, I don’t see when they can think about
how nice it is to have a heavenly papa. Do little angels ever have to
go away from home an’ stay a few days, an’ not see their father at
all?”
“Mercy--no!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, with a shudder. “Where do you get
such ideas, Budge?”
“Nowhere. I don’t get ’em at all--they get me, an’ don’t let go of me
until I think myself most to pieces, or else get somethin’ new to do
that makes me forget ’em.”
Mrs. Burton mentally resolved to immediately find something new for
Budge to do, if only to keep him from leading her mind upon ground
which, being unknown to her, she assumed must be dangerous. Her anxiety
was not lessened when Toddie strayed into more active conversation.
“Aunt Alish,” said he, “what does little boy angels do wif deir
pennies when dey get ’em? Ish dere candy stores up in hebben, and do de
folks dat keeps ’em give more for a penny dan dey do here?”
“Pennies are of no use in heaven, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton, almost
frantic to find a way of escape from the pair of literalists, yet
remembering her longings of the early morning, to have the boys with
her that she might find her way to their hearts and lead them into her
own.
“What? Not good for anyfin’?” asked Toddie. “Wouldn’t it be dweadful
den if I was to get to be an angel right now?--dere’h sixty-four
pennies in my savings bank.”
“You can’t carry pennies to heaven, you silly boy!” exclaimed Budge.
“In a place where the streets are made of gold, you don’t s’pose
anybody cares for pennies, do you? I don’t b’lieve you could buy a
single stick of candy there for less than a dollar bill!”
“If you little boys are so fond of candy,” said Mrs. Burton, in
desperation, “we will make a lot ourselves, after lunch.”
“Oh, oh!” Budge exclaimed. “Can common folks like us make candy?”
“But we are not common folks, Budge.”
“I think we are,” said the boy, “when I think what lovely people
candy-makers must be.”
“How much will we make?” asked Toddie. “Two pennies’s worth?”
“Oh, yes. More than two little boys can eat in a day.”
“Gwacious Peter!” Toddie exclaimed, “dat would be more dan a whole
candystore full! Come on! Don’t letsh eat any lunch at all, so’s to
have our tummuks all empty for de candy.”
[Illustration: Making Candy]
“I’ll bet I can walk faster than you can, Aunt Alice,” said Budge,
tugging at his aunt with one hand and pushing her with the other.
“I can run faster dan bofe of you,” shouted Toddie. “Come on!”
Mrs. Burton declined both challenges, so the boys went rapidly over the
course without her and ran frantically up and down the piazza until
their aunt joined them.
“What are you goin’ to make it in, Aunt Alice?” shouted Budge, while
Mrs. Burton was yet a hundred yards away.
“A saucepan.”
“A washboiler would be better--two washboilersh!” suggested Toddie.
“Now, do you want to go home to-day, Budge?” asked Mrs. Burton
mischievously.
“I--well--I guess you’d better not remind me very much about it,”
replied Budge, “else maybe I will. What kind of candy is it goin’ to
be?”
“Molasses.”
“De stick kind, or de sticky?” asked Toddie.
“Both,” replied the lady, ascending the steps.
“Oh, goody, goody!” exclaimed Toddie, clutching at his aunt’s dress. “I
wants to kish you.”
“An’ I want to give you an awful big hug,” said Budge.
Mrs. Burton accepted these proffered tokens of esteem and afterward
spent two miserable hours in trying to pacify the boys until
lunch-time. They ate scarcely anything, and remonstrated so
persistently against their aunt’s appetite that the meal remained
almost untouched. Then the lady was escorted to the kitchen by her
nephews and there was an animated discussion as to the size of the
saucepan to be used, and the boys watched the pouring of the molasses
so closely that not a fly dared to assist. Then they quarreled for the
right to stir the odorous mass until Mrs. Burton was obliged to allot
them three-minute reliefs by the kitchen clock, and Budge declared that
his turns didn’t last more than a second, while Toddie complained that
they occupied two hours, and each boy had to assist at the critical
operation of “trying,” and they consumed what seemed to them long,
weary years in watching the paste cool itself. When, at last, Mrs.
Burton pronounced one panfull ready to “pull,” a deep sigh of relief
burst from each little chest.
“This is the way to pull candy,” said Mrs. Burton, touching her fingers
lightly with butter, and then taking a portion of the paste from a pan
and drawing it into a string in the usual manner. “And here,” she said,
separating the smaller portions, “is a piece for each of you.”
Budge carefully oiled his fingers as he had seen his aunt do, and
proceeded cautiously to draw his candy, but Toddie seized his portion
with both hands, raised it to his mouth, and fastened his teeth in it.
Mrs. Burton sprang at him in an instant.
“Stop, Toddie--quick! It may fasten your teeth together so you can’t
easily open them.”
Many were the inarticulate noises, all in a tone of remonstrance, that
Toddie made as his aunt forcibly removed the mass from his face. When
at last he could open his mouth he exclaimed:
“Don’t want mine pulled! itsh too awful good the way it izh--you’ll
pull de good out, I’zh ’fwaid.”
“You boys should have aprons,” said Mrs. Burton. “Budge, put down
your candy, run up-stairs and tell Jane to bring down two of Toddie’s
aprons.”
Budge hurried up-stairs, forgetting the first half of his aunt’s
injunction. Returning, he had just reached the foot of the main stair,
when the door-bell rang. Hastily putting his candy down, he opened the
door and admitted two ladies, who asked for Mrs. Burton.
“I guess she’s too busy makin’ candy to be bothered by any lady,” said
Budge, “but I’ll ask her. Sit down.”
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Burton, by a concentration of effort peculiar
to woman, but which must ever remain a mystery to man, entered the
parlor in afternoon dress, and greeted her visitors. Both rose to meet
her, and with one of them rose also a rocking-chair with a cane seat.
This remained in mid-air only an instant, however, for the lady’s dress
had not been designed for the purpose of moving furniture; with a
sharp, ripping sound, like that of musketry file-firing afar off, her
skirt soon took the appearance of a train dress, heavily puffed at the
waist with fabric of another color.
Both ladies endeavored to disengage her; Mrs. Burton turned pale and
then red as she discovered the cause of the accident, while Budge’s
voice was heard from the doorway saying:
“Aunt Alice, have you seen my candy? I laid it down somewhere so’s to
let the ladies in, an’ now I can’t find it!”
An indignant gesture by Mrs. Burton sent Budge away pouting and
grumbling and the chambermaid was summoned, the visitor’ dress was
repaired temporarily and the accident was being laughed away, when
from the kitchen there arose an appalling sound. It was compounded of
shrieks, yelps, and a peculiar noise as of something being thrown upon
the floor.
The noise increased; there were irregular footfalls upon the
kitchen-stairs, and at last Toddie appeared, dragging by the collar the
dog Terry, from whose fore feet hung, by a slowly lengthening rope of
candy, one of the pans of the unpulled paste.
“I fought if I gived him candy he would be nicer to me,” Toddie
explained,” so I chased him into a closet, an’ put the pan up to his
nose, an’ told him to help hisself. And he stuck his foot in, an’----”
Further explanation was given by deeds, not words, for as Toddie spoke
the dog kicked violently with his hind feet, disengaged himself from
Toddie and started for the door, dragging and lengthening his sweet
bonds behind him upon the floor. Toddie shrieked and attempted to
catch him, stepped upon the candy-rope, found himself fastened to the
carpet, and burst into tears, while the visitors departed and told
stories which by the next afternoon had developed into the statement
that Mrs. Burton had been foolish enough to indulge her nephews in a
candy-pulling in her parlor and upon her new carpet.
As for the boys, Budge ate some of his candy, and Toddie ate much of
everybodies, and had difficulty in saving a fragment for his uncle. And
when at night he knelt in spotless white to pray he informed Heaven
that now he understood what ladies meant when they said they had had a
real sweet time.
[Illustration: Budge and Tody with Sunflower]
CHAPTER XI
“We’re goin’ home
We’re goin’ home
We’re goin’ home
To die no more.”
Sang Budge through the hall next morning, and he repeated the lines
over and over so many times that they at last impressed themselves upon
the mind of Toddie, who asked:
“Budgie, izh you a-tellin’ de troof?”
“What ’bout?”
“Why, ’bout not dyin’. Don’t little boys hazh to die after goin’ to
live wif their uncles an’ aunts for a little while?”
“Oh, of course they do, but I’m so happy I’ve got to sing somethin’;
the front part of it is troof, and that’s three times as big as the
other part, and I can’t think of any other song ’bout goin’ home.”
“Datsh too baddy,” complained Toddie. “I fought you wazh tellin’ the
troof, an’ I wouldn’t never hazh to hazh a lot of dirt on my eyes, so
I couldn’t look up into de sky.”
“Oh, you won’t have to be bothered that way,” said Budge. “When you
die your spirit goes up to heaven, an’ you can look straight down froo
the sky with your new eyes, an’ laugh at the old dirt that thinks it’
keepin’ your old eyes shut up.”
“Don’t want no new eyes! Eyes I’zh got izh good enough to see fings
wif.”
“But just you think, Toddie,” reasoned Budge, “heaven-eyes can’t get
dust in ’em, or have to be washed, or be bothered with choo-choo smoke.”
“Can’t smoke get in the windows of steam-cars up in hebben?”
“Of course not! Not if everythin’ goin’ to be all right up there.
There ain’t no choo-choos in heaven anyhow. What does angels want of
choo-choos, I’d like to know, when they’ve got wings to fly with?”
[Illustration: “WE’RE GOIN’s HOME”]
“I’d never want all the choo-choos to go away, even if I had a fousand
wingsh,” said Toddie. “’Twould be such fun to fan myself wif my wings
when I was goin’ froo hot old tunnels.”
“Tunnels can’t be hot in heaven,” explained Budge; “’cause they’re
uncomfortable, an’ nothin’ can be uncomfortable in heaven. I guess
there ain’t any tunnels there at all. Oh, yes! I guess there’s little
bits of ones, just long enough to give little boys the fun of ridin’
in and ridin’ out of ’em.”
“Well, how’s you goin’ to ride in an’ out if dere ain’t no choo-choos
to pull de cars?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Tod, I guess that’s one of the things that the
Bible don’t tell folks about heaven. You know papa says that there’s
lots of things the Lord don’t let people know ’bout heaven; ’cause it’
none of their business, an’ I guess that’s one of ’em.”
“Wish dere’d be some more Bibles, den! I wantsh to know lotsh more
fingsh.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Budge, “we’re goin’ home to-day, an’ that fills
me so full I ain’t got room for the littlest speck of heaven. Wonder
who’s goin’ to take us, an’ when we’re a-goin’, an’ ev’rything?
Let’s go ask Uncle Harry.”
“Come on!” exclaimed Toddie, “Izh been finkin’ awful hard ’bout how to
get into his bedroom wifout bein’ scolded, an’ now I know. Hurry up
’fore we forgets.”
Both boys hurried to the family chamber, and assaulted the door with
fists and feet.
“’The overture of the angels,’” quoted Mr. Burton, “’and positively
their last appearance.’”
“Don’t speak of it,” said Mrs. Burton. “I’ve been crying about it in my
dreams, I believe, and I’m in a condition to begin again.”
“I’ve a great mind to make them cry,” said the man of the house
savagely. “No scrubbing will take the mark of small shoe-toes out of
painted wood.”
“Let them kick to their dear little hearts’ content! Not a mark of that
kind shall ever be insulted by a scrubbing brush. I feel as if I’d like
to go about the house and kiss everything they’ve touched.”
“You might kiss the sounding board of my violin, then,” said Mr.
Burton, “where there’s an ineffaceable scratch from a nail in Toddie’s
shoe, placed there on the morning of your birthday anniversary. There’s
a nice generous blot on the wood of the writing-desk, too, where Toddie
upset a bottle of violet ink. Would that your kisses could efface
the stain that the cabinet-maker says is indelible. Then there are
some dingy streaks on the wall beside their bed, where they’ve lain
crosswise and rubbed their heads against the wall.”
“It shall remain forever,” said the lady.
“What! in your darling spare chamber?”
A violent mental struggle showed its indications in Mrs. Burton’s face,
but she replied:
“The furniture can be changed. We can put a screen in front of the
place; we’ll change the room in any way, excepting their blessed tokens
of occupation.”
But none of this devotion found its way through the keyhole to shame
the boys into silence, for the noise increased until Mrs. Burton
herself hastened to draw the bolt.
“It’s us,” was the unnecessary information, volunteered by Budge as
the door opened; “an’ we want to know when we’re goin’ home, an’
who’s goin’ to take us, an’ how, an’ what you’re goin’ to give us to
remember you by, an’ we don’t care to have it flowers, ’cause we’ve
got plenty of ’em at home.”
“Fruit-cake would be nicesht,” suggested Toddie. “Folks ’members that
an awful long time, ’cause when mamma once asked papa if he ’membered
de fruit-cake at Mrs. Birch’s party he looked drefful sad, an’ said
he couldn’t ever forget it. Say, Aunt Alish, don’t you get extra nice
dinners for folks dat’s goin’ away? Mamma always doesh; says dey need
it, cauzh folks need to be well-feeded when they’e goin’ to travel.”
[The distance from the Burton residence to that of the Lawrences was
about a quarter of a mile.]
“You shall have a good-by dinner, Toddie, dear,” said Mrs. Burton; “and
the very nicest one that I can prepare.”
“Better make it a brekspup,” suggested Toddie. “Mebbe we’ll be come for
’fore dinner-time.”
“You sha’n’t be taken until you get it, dear.”
“I ’pects I’ll have an awful good dinner waitin’ for us, too, when we
get home,” said Budge; “’cause that’s the way the papa in the Bible
did, an’ yet he had only one boy come home instead of two, an’ he’d
been bad.”
“What portion of the Scriptural narrative is that child running into
now?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“Aunt Alice don’t know who you’re talking about, Budge,” said Mr.
Burton. “Explain it to her.”
“Why, that boy that his papa made a dinner out of fat veal for,” said
Budge; “though I never could see how that was a very nice dinner.”
“Worse and worse,” sighed Mrs. Burton.
“Tell us all about it, old fellow,” said Mr. Burton. “We don’t know
what you’re driving at.”
“Why,” exclaimed Budge, “are you bad folks that don’t read your
Bible-books? I thought everybody knew about him. Why, he was a boy
that went to his papa one day and told him that whatever he was goin’
to give him as long as he lived, he wished he’d give it to him all at
once. An’ his papa did. Wasn’t he a lovely papa, though? So the boy
took the money, an’ went travelin’, an’ had larks. There’s a picture
about it all in Tommy Bryan’ mamma’s parlor, but I don’t think it’s
very larkey; he’s just a-sittin’ down with a whole lot of women
actin’ like geese all around him. But he had to pay money to have
larks, an’ he had such lots of ’em that pretty soon he didn’t have
no money. Say, Uncle Harry, why don’t people have all the money they
want?”
“That’s the world’s prize conundrum,” said Mr. Burton. “Ask me
something easier.”
“I’m goin’ to have all the money I wantsh when I gets growed,” said
Toddie.
“How are you going to get it?” asked his uncle, with natural interest.
“Goin’ to be real good, an’ then ashk de Lord for it,” said Toddie.
“Wonder where de Lord keepsh de lotsh of nysh fings he’ goin’ to give
good people when dey ashk Him for ’em?--money and fings?”
“Why, in heaven, of course,” said Budge.
“Hazh He got a savin’ bank an’ a toy-store?” asked Toddie.
“Sh--h--h!” whispered Mrs. Burton.
“He’s only talking of what grown people expect, my dear,” said Mr.
Burton. “Go on, Budge.”
“Well, he didn’t have any more money, an’ he couldn’t write to his
papa for some, ’cause there wasn’t any post offices in that country, so
he went to work for a man, an’ the man made him feed pigs, and he had
to eat the same things that the pigs ate. I don’t know whether he ate
them out of a troff or not.”
“It’s a great pity that you are in doubt on that point,” said Mr.
Burton.
“He could play in de mud like de pigs, couldn’t he?” said Toddie. “His
papa was too far away to know about it, an’ to say ‘Don’t!’s at him.”
“I s’pose so,” said Budge, “but I don’t think a boy could feel much
like playin’ with mud when he had to eat with the pigs. Well, he went
along bein’ a pig-feeder, when all at once he ’membered that there was
always enough to eat at his papa’s house. Say, Uncle Harry, boys is
alike everywhere, ain’t they?”
“I suppose so, present company excepted. But what reminded you of it?”
“Why, he wanted to go home when he couldn’t hook enough from the pigs
to fill his stomach, an’ my papa says little boys that can’t be found
when their mamma wants ’em always start for home when they get hungry.
That’s what this boy off in another country did--papa says the Bible
don’t tell whether he told the man to get another pig-feeder, or
whether he just skooted in a hurry. But, anyhow, he got pretty near
home, an’ I guess he felt awful ashamed of himself an’ went along the
back road; for, in the picture of our big Bible-book, his clothes are
awful ragged an’ mussy, an’ he must have been sure he was goin’ to
get scolded an’ wish he could get in the back door an’ go up to his
room without anybody seein’ him.”
“Oh, Harry!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “This is growing perfectly
dreadful. It’ positively sacrilegious.”
“The application is the only sacred part of the original, my dear,”
said Mr. Burton, “and you may trust that boy to discover the point of
anything. I wish doctors of divinity were like him. Go ahead, Budge.”
“Well, he was sneakin’ along, an’ gettin’ behind trees an’ fences
whenever he saw anybody comin’ that he knew, when all at once his papa
saw him. Papas always can see farther than anybody else, I believe,
an’ they always kind o’s know when their boys are comin’, an’ they
just look as if they’d always been standin’ right there waitin’ for
’em. An’ that pig-feeder’s papa ran right out of the house without his
hat on--that’s the way he is in the picture in the big Bible-book, an’
grabbed him, an’ kissed him, an’ hugged him so hard that he had to
grunt, an’----”
“An’ he didn’t say ‘Why, how did you get your clozhezh so dyty,’s
eiver?” said Toddie.
“No, indeed! An’ the pig-feeder said he’d been a bad boy, an’ he
guessed he’d better eat his dinner in the kitchen after that, but his
papa wouldn’t let him. He put clean clothes on him, an’ gave him a new
pair of shoes, an’ put a ring on his finger.”
“Ringsh ain’t good to eat,” said Toddie. “I fwallowed one once, I did,
an’ it didn’t taste nohow at all. And den I had to take some nashty
medshin, an’ de ring came unfwallowed again.”
“He didn’t give him the ring to eat, you silly boy,” said Budge. “Rings
squeeze fingers all the time, an’ let folks know how the folks that
give ’em the rings want to squeeze ’em all the time. Then they killed
a whole calf--’cause the pig-feeder was awful empty, you know, an’
they had a jolly old time. An’ the pig-feeder’s big brother heard ’em
all cuttin’ up, an’ he was real cross about it, ’cause he’d always
been good, an’ there hadn’t ever been any tea-parties made for him.
But his papa said, ‘Oh, don’t say a word--we’ve got your brother back
again--just think of that, my boy.’s I’m awful sorry for that big
brother, though; I know how he felt, for when Tod’s bad, an’ I’m good
papa just takes Tod in his lap an’ talks to him, an’ hugs him, an’
I feel awful lonesome an’ wish I wasn’t good a bit.”
“And what do you suppose the bad boy’ mamma did when she saw him?”
asked Mr. Burton.
[Illustration: “SOME NASHTY MEDSHIN”]
“Oh,” said Budge, “I guess she didn’t say anythin’, but just looked so
sad at him that he made up his mind he wouldn’t ever do a naughty thing
again as long as he lived, an’ after that he’d stand behind her chair
whole half-hours at a time just to look at her where she wouldn’t catch
him at it.”
“And what do you think that whole story means, Budge?” asked Mrs.
Burton, determined to impress at least one prominent theological
deduction upon her nephew.
“Why, it means that good papas can always see when bad boys is real
ashamed of themselves,” said Budge, “an’ know it’s best to be real
sweet to ’em then, an’ that papas that can’t see and don’t know better
than to scold ’em they needn’t ever expect to see their bad little boys
come home again.”
Mrs. Burton started, and her husband laughed inwardly at this unusual
application, but the lady recovered herself and returned in haste to
her point.
“Don’t you think it’s intended to teach us anything about the Lord?”
she asked.
“Why, yes,” said Budge, “of course. He is the best of all papas, so
he’ll be better to his bad children than any other good papas know how
to be.”
“That’s what the story is meant to teach,” said Mrs. Burton.
“I thought everybody knew that about the Lord.” Budge replied.
“If they did, Jesus would never have told the story,” said Mrs. Burton.
“Oh, I s’pose those old Jews had to be told it,” said Budge, “’cause
folks used to be awful bad to their children, an’ believe the Lord
would be awful bad to them.”
“People need to be told the same story now, Budge,” continued Mrs.
Burton. “They love to hear it, and know how good the Lord is willing to
be to them.”
“Do they love it better than to learn how good they ought to be to
their children?” Budge asked. “Then I think they’re piggish. I wouldn’t
like my papa an’ mamma to be that way. They say that it’s gooder to
care for what you can give than what you can get. An’ Uncle Harry
hasn’t told us yet when we’re goin’ home, and who’s goin’ to take us.”
“Your papa is going to come for you as he returns from the city,” said
Mr. Burton. “I think he wants to tell you something before you go home;
you little boys don’t know yet how to act in a house where there’s sick
mammas and little babies.”
“Oh, yes, we do,” said Budge. “All we’ve got to do is to sit still an’
look at ’em with all our mights.”
“Only dzust dzump up ev’ry two or free minutes to kiss ’em,” suggested
Toddie.
“Yes,” said Budge, “an’ to pat their cheeks an’ to put nice things to
eat in their mouths, like papa an’ mamma does to us, when we’re sick.”
“An’ make music for ’em,” said Toddie.
“An’ give ’em pennies,” said Budge.
“An’ shake their savings banks for ’em to make de pennies rattle, like
Budgie did for me once when I was too sick to rattle my own bank,” said
Toddie, bestowing a frantic hug upon his brother.
“An’ put the room to rights for ’em,” said Budge.
“An’ bring ’em in nice mud-pies all ready baked, like I did once for
Budgie, to play wif on de bed when he was sick,” said Toddie.
“An’ dance for ’em,” suggested Budge. “That’s the way I used to do for
Baby Phillie, an’ it always made him happy.”
“An’ put up pictures on de wall for ’em,” said Toddie; “we’s got whole
newspapers full that we’s cutted out up in your garret; and dere’s a
whole bottle of mucilage----”
“My war file of illustrated papers!” explained Mr. Burton. “How did
they find that? Oh, this cross of love!”
“Whole bottle of mucilage in papa’s room to stick ’em on wif,”
continued Toddie; “an’ mamma’s room is nice pink, like de leaves of my
scrap-book dat pictures look so pretty on.”
“And these are the child-ideas of being good and useful!” exclaimed
Mrs. Burton, as the boys forgot everything else in the discovery of
their uncle’s razor-strop with an extension at one end.
“Yes,” sighed Mr. Burton, “and they’re not much nearer the proper
thing, in spite of their good intentions, than the plans of grown
people for the management of children, the reformation of the world,
and a great many other things.”
“Harry!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton.
“No personal allusion, my dear,” said her husband, quickly. “I’d no
thought of anything of the kind. Adults and children alike mean well
enough; the difference is that the former wonder why their ideas are
not appreciated while with the children the energies of parents and
teachers are devoted to treating mistaken opinions as great sins. How
many children could do the kindnesses which Budge and Toddie have
devised out of the tenderness of their dear little hearts and not be
scolded and whipped for their pains? Hosts of children have had all the
good blood and kind heart and honest head scolded and beaten out of
them, and only the baser qualities of their natures allowed to grow,
and these only because in youth many of them are dormant and don’t make
trouble.”
“Harry, what a preacher you are!--what a terrible preacher!” exclaimed
Mrs. Burton.
“Where does the terror come in?” asked Mr. Burton, with signs of that
indignation which every man with an idea in advance of his generation
must frequently be afflicted by.
“Why, to imply that there’s so much injustice being done to children.”
“Of course the saying of it is worse than the fact of its existence,”
said Mr. Burton, with a curl of the lip.
“Please don’t speak in that cruel way, Harry. It isn’t anything of the
sort--excepting for a moment or two.”
Mr. Burton apologized, and restored confidence without saying a word,
and then the couple turned instinctively to look at the first causes of
their conversation, but the boys were gone.
“The tocsin of their souls, the dinner-bell--breakfast-bell, I mean,
has probably sounded,” said Mr. Burton; “and I’m as hungry as a bear
myself. Let’s descend and see what they’ve succeeded in doing within
five brief minutes.”
The Burtons found the dining-room, but not the boys and the chambermaid
was sent in search of them. The meal was slowly consumed but the boys
did not appear.
“You’d better have the cook prepare something additional,” suggested
Mr. Burton, as he arose and started for his train. “The appetite of the
small boy is a principal that accumulates frightful usury in a very
small while after maturity.”
Mrs. Burton acted upon her husband’ suggestion, and busied herself
about household affairs for an hour or more, until, learning that
the boys had not yet arrived, she strolled out to search for them.
Supposing that they might have been overpowered by their impatience
so far as to have gone home at once, she visited the residence of her
sister-in-law, and inquired of Mike.
“Dhivil a bit have they been here,” replied Michael. “Ain’t me ould
eyes sore for the soight av ’em all the whoile ag’in? They’re nowhere
about here, rest ye aisy.”
“I’m afraid they may be lost,” said Mrs. Burton.
Mike burst into a prolonged horse laugh, and then, recovering himself
by sundry contortions and swallowings, he replied:
“Beggin’ yez pardon, ma’am, but I couldn’t help it--as the blessed
Virgin is smoilin’ in heaven, I cuddent--but thim byes can niver be
lost. Lost, is it? Cud ye lose a ghost or a bird? They’ll foind their
way anywhere they’ve been once, an’ if they haven’t been there before
they’ll belave they have, an’ foind their way out all roight. Lave yer
boddher till dinner-time, an’ mark me wurruds ye’ll foind ye’ve no
nade av it. Losht!” and Mike burst into another laugh that he hurried
into the stable to hide while Mrs. Burton returned to her home with a
mind almost quiet.
The morning ended, however, and no small boys appeared at the table.
Mrs. Burton’s fears came back with increased strength and she hurried
off again to Mike and implored him to go in search of the children. The
sight of an ugly looking tramp or two by the way suggested kidnapping
to Mrs. Burton and brought tears to her eyes. Even the doubting Mike,
when he learned that the children had eaten nothing that day, grew
visibly alarmed and mounted one of his master’s horses in hot haste.
“Where are you going first, Mike?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“Dhivil a bit do I know!” exclaimed Mike; “but I’m goin’ to foind ’em,
an’ may the blessed saints go with me!”
Away galloped Mike, and Mrs. Burton, fearing that the alarm might
reach the boys’ mother, hurried home, started the cook on one road,
the chambermaid on another, and herself on a third, while Mike sought
the candystore, the schoolhouse, sundry bridges over brooks, and the
various other places that boys delight in. Mrs. Burton’s own course
was along a road leading up the rugged, heavily wooded hill called by
courtesy a mountain, but she paused so many times, to call, to listen,
to step considerably out of her way to see if dimly descried figures
were not those of her nephews, and to discover that what seemed in the
forest to be boyish figures were only stumps or bushes, that she spent
at least two hours upon the road, which doubled many times upon itself.
Suddenly she saw in the road beyond her a familiar figure dragging a
large green bough.
“Budge!” she screamed and ran toward him. The little figure turned
its head, and Mrs. Burton was shocked to see a haggard face, whose
whiteness intensified the starting eyes, pink, distended nostrils, and
thin, drawn lips of her nephew. And upon the bough, holding to one
of the upper sprigs tightly with one hand, while with the other he
clutched something green and crumpled, lay Toddie, dust-encrusted from
head to foot.
“Oh! what has happened?” Mrs. Burton exclaimed.
Toddie raised his head and explained.
“Izhe a shotted soldier bein’ tookted to where de shooters can’t catch
me, like sometimes dey used to be in de war.”
Budge dropped in the road and cried.
“Oh, what is it?” cried Mrs. Burton, kneeling beside Toddie, and taking
him in her arms. And Toddie replied:
“Ow!”
“Budge, dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, releasing Toddie, and hurrying to
his brother, “what has happened? Do tell me!”
Budge opened his eyes and mouth reluctantly, and replied with a thin
voice:
“Wait till I get alive again, an’ I’ll tell you. I haven’t got many
words inside of me now; they’re all dropped out, I’m so tired, and,
oh----”
[Illustration: “I’ZHE A SHOTTED SOLDIER”]
Budge closed his eyes again. Mrs. Burton picked him up tenderly, sat
upon a large stone, rocked back and forth, kissed him repeatedly, cried
over him, while Toddie turned upon his stomach, surveyed the scene with
apparent satisfaction, and said:
“Say, Aunt Alish, it’s djolly to be a shotted soldier.”
Budge slowly recovered, put his arm around his aunt tightly, and said:
“Oh, Aunt Alice, ’twas awful!”
“Tell me all about it, dear, when you feel well enough. Where have you
been all day? Aunty’s heart has been almost broken about you.”
“Why, you see, we wanted to do something nice for you, ’fore we went
home to stay, ’cause you’ve been so nice to us. Why, when we talked
about it, we couldn’t think of a single unpleasant thing you’d done to
us--though I’m sure you done a lot. Anyhow, we couldn’t ’member any.”
“’Cept sayin’ ‘Don’t!’s lotzh of timesh,” said Toddie.
“Well,” said Budge, “Tod thought ’bout that, but we made up our minds
perhaps we needed that said to us. An’ we couldn’t think of anything
nicer than to get you some wild flowers. Ev’rybody’s got tame flowers,
you know, so we thought wild ones would be nicer. An’ we thought we
could get ’em ’fore breakbux if we’d hurry, so off we came right up to
the foot of the mountains, but there wasn’t any. I guess they wasn’t
awake yet, or else they’d gone to sleep. Then we didn’t know what to
do.”
“’Cept get you some bych [birch] bark,” said Toddie.
“Yes,” said Budge; “but birch bark is to eat, an’ not to look at; an’
we wanted to give you somethin’ you could see, an’ remember us a few
days by.”
“An’ all of a sudden I said ’fynes!’ [ferns],” said Toddie.
“Yes,” said Budge, “Tod said it first, but I thought it the same
second. An’ there’ lovely ferns up in the rocks. Don’t you see?”
Mrs. Burton looked, and shuddered. The cliff above her head was a
hundred feet high, jagged all over its front, yet from every crevice
exquisite ferns posed their peaceful fronds before the cold gray of the
rock.
“’Twasn’t here,” Budge continued. “’Twas ’way up around the corner,
where the rocks ain’t so high, but they’re harder to climb. We climbed
up here first.”
“You dreadful, darling children!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, giving Budge
a squeeze of extra severity. “To think of two little children going up
such a dreadful place! Why, it makes me dizzy to see your Uncle Harry
do it.”
“Ain’t childrens, when we climb mountainsh!” asserted Toddie; “we’zh
mans den.”
“Well,” Budge continued, “we got lots, and throwed each one away ’cause
we kept seein’ nicer ones higher up. Say, Aunt Alice, what’s the
reason things higher up always look extra nice?”
“I know,” said Toddie.
“Why is it, Toddie?” Mrs. Burton asked.
“’Cauzh deysh closer to hebben,” said Toddie. “G’won, Budgie. I likes
to hear ’bout it, too.”
“Well, at last we got to a place where the rocks all stopped and some
more began. An’ up on them was the loveliest ferns of all.”
“An’ I went up dat mountain fyst, I did,” said Toddie.
“Yes, Tod did, the blessed little sassy rascal,” said Budge, blowing
a kiss to his brother. “I told him I didn’t believe that any ferns was
nicer than any others, but he said, ‘Lord’ll make ’em so den, for Aunt
Alish.’s An’ up he went, just like a spider.”
“Went up fyst,” said Toddie.
“’Course you did,” said Budge. “’Cause I didn’t go up at all. And Tod
was pullin’ at a big fern with his back to me, an’ the first thing I
knew there he was in the air layin’ down sideways on nothin’. Then he
hollered.”
“’Cauzh I camed down bunk on whole lotch of little rocks,” explained
Toddie. “But I didn’t lose the fyne--here tizh!” and Toddie held up a
badly crushed and wilted ball of something that had once been a fern,
seeing which Mrs. Burton placed Budge on the stone, hurried to Toddie,
thrust the bruised fern into her bosom, and kissed its captor soundly.
“Hold me some more,” said Budge, “I don’t feel very good yet.”
“Then what did you do?” asked Mrs. Burton, resuming her position as
nurse.
“Why, Tod went on hollerin’, an’ he couldn’t walk, so I helped him
down to the road, an’ he couldn’t walk yet----”
Mrs. Burton had turned again to Toddie, and carefully examined his legs
without finding any broken bones.
“The hurt is in de bottom part of my leg an’ de top part of my foot,”
said Toddie, who had turned his ankle.
“An’ he just hollered ‘mam-_ma_’s and ‘pa-_pa_,’ so sad,” continued
Budge. “An’ ’twas awful. An’ I looked up the road an’ there wasn’t
anybody, an’ down the front of the mountain and there wasn’t anybody,
an’ I didn’t know what to do, ’cause ’twouldn’t do to go ’way off home
to tell, when a poor little brother was feelin’ so dreadful bad. Then
I ’membered how papa said he’d sometimes seen shot soldiers carried
away when there wasn’t any wagons. So I pulled at the limb of a tree to
get the thing to drag him on.”
“Why, Budge!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, “you don’t mean to say you got
that bough all alone by yourself, do you?”
“Well, no, I guess not,” said Budge, hesitatingly. “I pulled at one
after another, but not one of them would split, and then I thought of
somethin’ an’ kneeled right down by the tree, an’ told the Lord
all about it, an’ told Him I knew He didn’t want poor little hurt Tod
to lie there all day, an’ wouldn’t He please help me break a limb
to draw him on? An’ when I got up off of my knees I was as strong
as forty thousand horses. I don’t think I needed the Lord to help me
a bit then. An’ I just gave one pull at the limb, an’ down it came
kersplit, an’ I put Tod on it, an’ dragged him. But I tell you it was
hard work!”
“’Twash fun, too,” said Toddie, “’cept when it went where dere was
little rocks in de road, an’ dey came up an’ hitted de hurt playsh.”
“I dragged it in the soft parts of the road,” said Budge, “whenever I
could, but sometimes there wasn’t any soft place all across the road.
An’ things jumped inside of me--that little heart-engine, you know,
awfully. I could only go about a dozen steps without stoppin’ to
rest. An’ then Tod stopped cryin’ an’ said he was hungry, an’ that
reminded me that I was hungry, too.”
“But we didn’t lose the fyne,” said Toddie.
Mrs. Burton took the memento from her breast and kissed it.
“Why,” said Budge, “you like it, don’t you? All right, then. Tod an’
me don’t care for bothers an’ hurts now, do we, Tod?”
“No, indeedy,” said Toddie. “Not when we can ride like shotted
soldiers, an’ get home to get breakbux an’ lunch togevver.”
“Neither of you shall have any more trouble about getting home,” said
Mrs. Burton. “Just sit here quietly while I go and send a carriage for
you.”
“Oh!” said Budge. “That’ll be lovely; won’t it, Tod? Ain’t you glad you
got hurt? But say? Aunt Alice, haven’t you got any crackers in your
pocket?”
“Why, no--certainly not!” exclaimed the lady, temporarily losing her
tenderness.
“Oh! I thought you might have. Papa always does, when he goes out to
look for us when we stay away from home a good while.”
Suddenly a horse’s hoofs were heard on the road below.
“I shouldn’t wonder if that was Mike,” said Mrs. Burton. “He has been
out on horseback, looking for you.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if ’twas papa,” said Budge. “He’s the funniest man
for always comin’ anywhere first when we need him most.”
“An’ wif crackers,” Toddie added.
The clattering hoofs came nearer, though slower, and, true to the
children’s intuitions, around the bend of the road came Tom Lawrence
on horseback, an old army haversack and canteen slung over his shoulder.
“Papa!” shouted both boys. “Hooray!” Tom Lawrence waved his hat, and
Toddie shouted, “He’s got de crackers! I see de bag!” The father reined
up suddenly and dismounted, Budge rushed to his arms, and Toddie
exclaimed,
“Papa, guesh it’s a long time since you’ seen a shotted soldier, ain’t
it?”
Then Toddie was placed in the saddle, and Budge behind him, and the
precious haversack was opened and found to contain sandwiches, and
both boys tried to drink out of the canteen, and poured a great deal
of water into their bosoms, and Tom led the horse carefully, and Mrs.
Burton walked upon one side, with a hand under Toddie’s lame leg to
keep the bruised ankle from touching the saddle, and she did not
swerve from the middle of the dusty road, even when carriages full of
stylish acquaintances were met, and both little heroes, like men of
larger growth, forgot at once that they had ever been heroic, and they
prattled as inconsequently as any couple of silly children could, and
the horse was led by a roundabout road so that no one might see the
party and apprise Mrs. Lawrence that anything unusual had happened, and
the boys were heavily bribed to tell their mother nothing until their
father had explained, and they were carried in, each in his father’
arms, to kiss their mamma; and when they undressed and went to bed,
the sister-baby was, by special dispensation of the nurse, allowed to
lie between them for a few moments, and the evening ceremonies were
prolonged by the combined arts of boys and parent, and then Budge knelt
and prayed:
“Dear Lord, we’re awful glad to get back again, ’cause nobody can be
like papa and mamma to us, an’ I’m so thankful I don’t know what to do
for bein’ made so strong when I wanted to break that limb off of the
tree, and bless dear Aunt Alice for findin’ us, and bless poor uncle
more, ’cause he tried to find us, and was disappointed, and make every
little boy’s papa just like ours, to come to ’em just when they need
him, just like you. Amen.”
And Toddie shut his eyes in bed, and said,
“Dee Lord, I went up de mountain fyst. Don’t forget dat. Amen.”
CHAPTER XII
There was a little family conclave at the Lawrence house a fortnight
later. No deliberative meeting had been intended; quite the contrary;
for Mrs. Lawrence was on that day to make her first appearance at the
dinner-table in a month, and Mrs. Burton and her husband were invited
to step in informally on the occasion, and they had been glad enough to
do so although the boys, who had been allowed to dine that night with
the family in honor of the occasion, conversed so volubly that no other
person at the table could speak without interruption.
But there came an hour when the boys could no longer prolong the usual
preliminaries of going to bed, although they kissed their parents
and visitors once as a matter of course, a second time to be sure
they had done it, and a third time to assure themselves that they
had forgotten nobody. Then several chats were interrupted by various
juvenile demands, pleas and questions from the upper floor; but as,
when Lawrence went in person to answer the last one he found both boys
sleeping soundly the families devoted themselves to each other with the
determination of passing a pleasant evening. They talked of what was
going on in the world, and much that might be going on but was not, the
blame being due to persons who did not think as they did; they sang,
played, quoted books, talked pictures and bric-a-brac, and then Mrs.
Lawrence changed the entire course of conversation by promising to
replace Mrs. Burton’s chair which the dog Terry had destroyed by special
arrangement with the boys.
[Illustration: BOTH BOYS SLEEPING SOUNDLY]
“You sha’n’t do anything of the sort!” said Mrs. Burton. “Keep the dear
little scamps from playing such pranks on any one who don’t happen to
love them so well, and I’ll forgive them.”
“You don’t imagine for a moment that they knew what the result would be
when they tied Terry to the chair, do you?” Mrs. Lawrence asked.
“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, emphatically, “but they did it, and it
might have happened somewhere else, with people who didn’t love them so
well, and what would they have thought?”
“She means that strangers would have imagined your boys a couple of
little boors, Nell,” said Mr. Burton to his sister.
“Strangers know nothing whatever about other people’s children,” said
Mrs. Lawrence with dignity, “and they should therefore have nothing to
do with them and pass no opinions upon them. No one estimates children
by what they are; they only judge by the amount of trouble they make.”
“Now you’ve done it, Mistress Alice,” said Mr. Burton to his wife. “It
is better to meet a she-bear that is robbed of her whelps than a mother
whose children are criticized by any one but herself.”
“I’ve done it!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Who translated my quiet remark
into something offensive. Besides, you’ve misapplied Scripture only
to suggest things worse yet. If I’m not mistaken, the proverb about
the she-bear and her whelps has something in it about a fool and his
folly. Do you mean to insinuate such insulting ideas about your sister
and her darlings?”
But no amount of badinage could make Mrs. Lawrence forget that some
implied advice was secreted in her sister-in-law’s carefully worded
remark, so she continued,
“I’m extremely sorry they had to go to you, but I couldn’t imagine what
better to do. I wish Tom could have staid at home all the while to
take care of them. I hope, if we ever die, they may follow us at once.
Nothing is so dreadful as the idea of one’s children being perpetually
misunderstood by some one else, and having their honest little hearts
hardened and warped just when they should be cared for most patiently
and tenderly.”
“Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, changing her seat so as to take Mrs.
Lawrence’ hand, “I’d die for your children at any time, if it would do
them any good.”
“I believe you, you dear girl,” said Mrs. Lawrence, recovering her
natural manner, and not entirely unashamed of her outburst of feeling,
“but you don’t understand it all, as you will some day. The children
trouble me worse than they ever did or can any one else; but it isn’t
their fault, and I know it, and can endure it. No one else can. I
am sure I don’t know how to blame people who are annoyed by juvenile
pranks.”
“Then what’s to be done with youngsters in general?” Mrs. Burton asked.
“They’re to be kept at home,” said Mrs. Lawrence, “under the eye of
father or mother continually, until they are large enough to trust; and
the age at which they’re to be trusted should not be determined by the
impatience of their parents, either.”
“Don’t be frightened, Allie,” said Tom. “Helen had some of these
notions before she had any boys of her own to defend.”
“They’re certainly not the result of my children’s happy experiences
with the best aunt and uncle that ever lived,” said Mrs. Lawrence,
caressing her adopted sister’ hand. “If you could hear the boys’s
praises of you both, you’d grow insufferably vain, and imagine
yourselves born to manage orphan asylums.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, the immediate result of her
utterance being the partial withdrawal of Mrs. Lawrence’ hand. “There
are only two children in the family----”
“Three,” corrected Mrs. Lawrence promptly.
“Oh, bless me, what have I said!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Well, there
are only three children in the family, and they are not enough to found
an asylum, while I feel utterly unfitted to care for any one child that
I don’t know very well and love very dearly.”
“Is it possible that any one can learn so much in so short a time?”
exclaimed Tom Lawrence. “Harry, my boy, you’re to be congratulated.”
“Upon having educated me?” Mrs. Burton asked.
“Upon the rare wisdom with which he selected a wife, or, the special
favor he found at the court where matches are made,” Tom explained.
“Harry didn’t select me at all,” said Mrs. Burton. “Budge did it for
him, so of course the match was decreed in heaven. But may I know of
what my sudden acquisition of knowledge consists? If there’s anything
in my experience with the boys that I am not to feel humiliated about,
I should be extremely glad to know of it. I went into the valley of
humiliation within an hour of their arrival, and since then I’ve
scarcely been out of it.”
“If it weren’t for being suspected of throwing moral deductions at
people,” Tom replied, “I would say that that same valley of humiliation
is very prolific of discoveries. But, preaching aside, no one can
manage children without first loving them. Even a heart full of love
has to make room for a lot of sorrow over blunders and failures.”
“I’ve learned that affection is absolutely necessary,” said Mrs.
Burton, “but I confess that I don’t see clearly that love requires that
one should be trampled upon, wheedled, made of no account and without
authority in one’s own house, submit to anything, in fact----”
“Now you’ve done it again,” whispered Mr. Burton to his wife, as Helen
Lawrence’ cheek began to flush, and that maternal divinity replied:
“Does the parent of all of us resign his authority when he humors us in
our childish ways because we can’t comprehend any greater ones? Every
concession is followed by growth on the part of his children, if they
are honest; when they are not, it seems to me that the concessions
aren’t made. But my children are honest.”
Mrs. Burton’s lips were parting, seeing which her husband whispered,
“Don’t!”
There was a moment or two of silence; then Mrs. Burton asked:
“How are people to know when they’re not being imposed upon by
children? You can’t apply to the funny little beings the rules that
explain the ways of grown people.”
“Is it the most dreadful thing in the world to be imposed upon by a
child?” asked Tom. “We never impose upon them, do we? We never give
them unfair answers, arbitrary commands, unkind restrictions, simply to
save ourselves a little extra labor or thought?”
“Tom!” Mrs. Burton exclaimed; “I don’t do anything of the sort, I am
sure.”
“Why will you display so touchy a conscience, then?” whispered her
husband. “If you continue to put up your defense the instant Tom
launches a criticism, he’ll begin to suspect you of dreadful cruelty to
the boys.”
“Not I,” laughed Tom.
“She had you to reform, for half a year before the boys visited her,”
said Helen, “and you still live.”
“But, Tom, seriously now, you don’t mean to have me infer that children
shouldn’t be made to mind, and be prevented from doing things that can
bother their elders?” asked Mr. Burton.
“Certainly they should have to obey,” said Tom, “but I’d rather they
wouldn’t, if at the same time they must learn, as in general they do,
that obedience is imposed more for the benefit of their elders than
themselves.”
“I was always taught to obey,” said Mrs. Burton, with the not unusual
though always unconscious peculiarity of supposing the recital of
personal experience to be a sufficient argument and precedent.
“Do you find the habit still strong in her, Harry?” asked Tom.
“_Do_ I!” exclaimed Harry, with a mock tragic air, “’could I the
horrors of my prison house unfold,’s you would see that the obedient
member of the Burton family never appears in gowns.”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Burton. “Didn’t he promise to be mine, and
shall I neglect my responsibilities? I obeyed my parents.”
“And never doubted that their orders were wise, beneficent, and
necessary, of course?” asked Lawrence.
[Illustration: THE OBEDIENT MEMBER OF THE BURTON FAMILY]
“Tom, Tom!” said Helen, warningly; “if you don’t want Alice to abuse
other people’s children be careful what you say about other children’s
parents. Don’t play grand inquisitor.”
“Oh, not at all,” said Tom, hastily. “But I should like to borrow
woman’ curiosity for a while, and have it gratified in this particular
case.”
“I don’t know that I always admitted the wisdom of my parents’s
commands,” said Mrs. Burton; “but how could I? I was only a child.”
“You rendered unquestioning obedience in spirit as well as in act, when
you became a young lady, then?” pursued Tom.
“No, I didn’t. There!” Mrs. Burton exclaimed; “but what return can a
child make for parental care and suffering, except to at least seem to
be a model of compliance with its parents’s desires?”
“Good!” exclaimed Harry. “And what can a husband, who knows that his
own way is best, do to recompense wifely companionship but meekly do as
his wife wants him to, no matter how incorrect her ideas?”
“He can listen to reason and not be a conceited goose,” said Mrs.
Burton; “and he can refrain from impeding the flow of brotherly
instruction.”
“Tom shall say whatever he likes,” said Mr. Burton.
Mrs. Lawrence’s smile showed that she would be satisfied with the
result, and her husband continued:
“Children--ninety-nine one-hundredths of those I’ve seen, at least,
are treated as necessary nuisances by their parents. The good fathers
and mothers would be horrified to realize this truth, and when it
accidentally presents itself, as it frequently does to any with heart
and head, its appearance is so unpleasing and perplexing that they
promptly take refuge in tradition. Weren’t they brought up in the same
way? To be sure, it’s the application of the same rule that has always
made the ex-slave the cruelest of overseers, and the ex-servant the
worst of masters; but such comparisons are odious to one’s pride, and
what chance has self-respect when pride steps down before it?”
“Poor human nature!” sighed Harry. “You’ll get to Adam’s fall pretty
soon, won’t you, Tom?”
“Don’t fear,” laughed Mr. Lawrence. “It’ the falling of later people
that troubles me--that, and their willingness to stay down when they’ve
tumbled and the calmness with which they can lie quiet and crush poor
little children who aren’t responsible for being under them. Adam knew
enough to wish himself back in his honorable position, but most parents
have had no lofty position to which they could look longingly back,
and but few of them can remember any such place having been in the
possession of any member of their respective families.”
“But what is to be done, even if any one wishes to live up to your
ideal standard as a guardian of children?” Mrs. Burton asked. “Submit
to any and every imposition; allow every misdeed to go unpunished; be
the ruled instead of the ruler?”
“Oh, no,” said Tom, “it’s something far harder than that. It’s to live
for the children instead of one’s self.”
“And have all your nice times spoiled and your plans upset?”
“Yes, unless they’re really of more value than human life and human
character,” Tom replied. “You indicated the proper starting point in
your last remark; if you’ll study that for yourself, you’ll learn a
great deal more than I can tell you, and learn it more pleasantly too.”
“I don’t care to study,” said Mrs. Burton, “when I can get my
information at second-hand.”
“Go on, Tom,” said Mr. Burton, “Continue to appear in your character of
the ‘Parental Encyclopædist’; we’ll try to stop one ear so that what
goes in at the other shall not be lost.”
“I only want to say that the plans and good times spoiled by the
children are what ruin every promising generation. The child should
be taught, but instead of that he is only restrained. He should be
encouraged to learn the meaning and the essence of whatever of the
inevitable is forced upon him from year to year; but he soon learns
that children’s questions are as unwelcome as tax-collectors or
lightning-rod men. It’s astonishing how few hints are necessary to give
a child the habit of retiring into himself, and from there to such
company as he can find to tolerate him.”
“You needn’t fear for your boys, Tom,” said Mr. Burton. “I’d pay
handsomely for the discovery of a single question which they have ever
wanted to ask but refrained from putting.”
“And what myriads of them they can ask--not that there’s anything
wrong about it, the little darlings,” Mrs. Burton added.
“I am glad of it,” said Tom; “but I hope they’ll never again have to go
to any one but their mother and me for information.”
“Tom, there you go again!” said Mrs. Burton. “Please don’t believe I
ever refused them an answer or answered unkindly.”
“Certainly you haven’t,” said Tom. “Excuse a stale quotation--’the
exception proves the rule.’s I’ve really been nervously anxious about
the soundness of this rule, until you were brought into the family, for
I never knew another exception.”
“May I humbly suggest that a certain brother-in-law existed before the
boys had an Aunt Alice?” asked Mr. Burton.
“Oh, yes,” said Tom; “but he was too well rewarded, for the little he
did, to be worthy of consideration.”
Mrs. Burton inclined her head in acknowledgment of her brother-in-law’s
compliment, and asked:
“Do you think all children’s questions are put with any distinct
intention? Don’t you imagine that they ask a great many because they
don’t know what else to do, or because they want to--to----”
“To talk against time, she means, Tom,” said Mr. Burton.
“Very likely. But the answers are what are of consequence, no matter
what the motive of the questions may be.”
“What an idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton; “really, Tom, aren’t you afraid
you’re losing yourself?”
“I really hadn’t noticed it,” said Tom; “but perhaps I may be able to
explain myself more clearly. You go to church?”
“Regularly--every Sunday,” responded Mrs. Burton.
“And always with the most reverent feelings, of course. You never find
your mind full of idle questionings, or mere curious wondering, or even
a perfect blank, or a circle upon which your thoughts chase themselves
around to their starting place without aim or motive?”
“How well you know the ways of the hum-drum mind, Tom,” said Mrs.
Burton. “You didn’t learn them from your personal experience, of
course?”
“I wish I hadn’t! But supposing you at some few times in your life have
gone into the sanctuary in such frames of mind, did you never have
them changed by what you’ve heard? Did you never have the very common
experience of learning that it is at these very moments of weakness,
indecision, blankness, childishness, or whatever you may please to call
it, the mind becomes peculiarly retentive of whatever of real value
happens to strike it?”
Mrs. Burton reflected, and by silence signified her assent, but she was
not fully satisfied with the explanation, for she asked,
“Do you think, then, that all the ways of children are just as they
should be?--that they never ask questions from any but heaven-ordained
motives?--that they are utterly devoid of petty guile?”
“They’re human, I believe,” said Mr. Lawrence, “and full of human
weaknesses, but any other human beings--present company excepted, of
course--should know by experience how little malice there is in the
most annoying of people. Certainly children do copy the faults of their
elders, and--oh, woe is me! inherit the failings of their ancestors,
but it is astonishing how few they seem to have when the observer will
forget himself and honestly devote himself to their good. I confess it
does need the wisdom of Solomon to discover when they are honest and
when they’re inclined to be tricky.”
“And can you inform us where the wisdom of Solomon is to be procured
for the purpose?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“From the source at which Solomon obtained it, I suppose,” Tom replied;
“from an honest, unselfish mind. But it is so much easier to trust to
selfishness and its twin demon suspicion, that nothing but a pitying
Providence saves most children from reform schools and penitentiaries.”
“But the superiority of adults--their right to demand implicit,
unquestioning obedience----”
“Is the most vicious, debasing tyranny that the world is cursed by,
“Tom exclaimed with startling emphasis.” It gave the old Romans power
of life and death over their children. It cast some of the vilest blots
upon the pages of Holy Writ. Nowadays it is worse, for then it worked
its principal mischief upon the body, but nowadays ‘I say unto you fear
not them that kill the body, but’--excuse a free rendering--fear them
who cast both soul and body into hell. You’re orthodox, I believe.”
Mrs. Burton shuddered, but her belief in the rights of adults, which
she had inherited from a line of ancestors reaching back to Adam or
protoplasm, was more powerful than her horror, and the latter was
quickly overcome by the former.
“Then adults have no rights that children are bound to respect?” she
asked.
“Yes; the right of undoing the failures of their own education and
doing it for the benefit of beings who are not responsible for their
own existence. Can you imagine a greater crime than calling a soul into
existence without its own desire and volition, and then making it your
slave instead of making yourself its friend?”
“Why, Tom, you’re perfectly dreadful,” exclaimed Mrs. Burton.” One
would suppose that parents were a lot of pre-ordained monsters!”
“They’re worse,” said Tom; “they’re unthinking people with a lot of
self-satisfaction, and a reputation for correctness of life. Malicious
people are easily caught and kept out of mischief by the law. The
respectable, unintentional evil-doers are those who make most of the
trouble and suffering in the world.”
“And you propose to go through life dying deaths daily for the sake of
those children,” said Alice, “rather than make them what you would like
them to be?”
“No,” said Tom, “I propose to live a new life daily, and learn what
life should be, for the sake of making them what I would like them to
be; for I don’t value them so much as conveniences and playthings, as
for what they may be to themselves, and to a world that sorely needs
good men.”
“And women,” added Mrs. Lawrence. “I do believe you’ve forgotten the
baby, you heartless wretch!”
“I accept the amendment,” said Tom, “but the world has already more
good women than it begins to appreciate.”
“Bless me! what a quantity of governing that poor sister-baby will
get!” said Mrs. Burton. “But, of course, you don’t call it governing;
you’ll denominate it self-immolation; you’ll lose your remaining hair,
and grow ten years older in the first year of its life.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Tom, with an expression of countenance which
banished the smiles occasioned by his sister-in-law’ remark.
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton; “is there any more?”
“Only this--it’s positively the last--’and, finally, we then that are
strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please
ourselves.’s Again I would remark, that I believe you’re orthodox?”
The Burtons looked very sober for a moment, when suddenly there came
through the air the cry--
“Pa-_pa_!”
Tom sprang to his feet; Helen looked anxious, and the Burtons smiled
quietly at each other. The cry was repeated, and louder, and as Tom
opened the door a little figure in white appeared.
[Illustration: MAKING THEM WHAT I WOULD LIKE THEM TO BE]
“I can’t get to sleep,” said Budge, shielding his eyes a moment from
the light. “I ain’t seen you for so long that I’e got to sit in your
lap till some sleep will come to me.”
“Come to auntie, Budge,” said Mrs. Burton. “Poor papa is real tired;
you can’t imagine the terrible work he’s been at for an hour.”
“Papa says it rests him to rest me,” said Budge, clasping his father
tightly.
The Burtons looked on with quiet amusement, until there arose another
cry in the hall of--
“Papa! Ow! pa-pa!”
Again Tom hurried to the door, this time with Budge clinging around
his neck. As the door opened, Toddie crept in on his hands and knees,
exclaiming:
“De old bed wazh all empty, only ’cept me, an’ I kwawled down de
stepsh ’cauzh I didn’t want to be loneshome no more. And Ize all empty
too, and I wantsh somefin’ to eat.”
Helen went to the dining-room closet and brought in a piece of light
cake.
“There goes all my good instructions,” groaned Mrs. Burton. “To think
of the industry with which I have always labored to teach those
children that it’s injurious to eat between meals, and, worse yet, to
eat cake!”
“And to think of how you always ended by letting the children have
their own way!” added Mr. Burton.
“Eating between meals is the least of two evils,” said Tom. “When
a small boy is kept in bed with a sprained ankle, and on a short
allowance of food---- Oh, dear! I see my subject nosing around again,
Alice. Do you know that most of the wickednesses of children come from
the lack of proper attention to their physical condition?”
“Save me! Pity me!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “I’m convinced already that
I don’t know a single thing about children, and I’ll know still less if
I take another lesson to-day.”
“Izh you takin’ lessons, Aunt Alish?” asked Toddie, who had caught a
fragment of the conversation. “What book is you lynin’ fwom?”
“A primer,” replied Mrs. Burton; “the very smallest, most insignificant
of A B C books.”
“Why, can’t you read?” asked Budge.
“Oh, yes,” sighed Mrs. Burton. “’But whether there be knowledge it
shall vanish away.’”
“’But love never faileth,’” responded Mr. Lawrence.
“If you want to learn anythin’,” said Budge, “just you ask my papa.
He’ll make you know all about it, no matter how awful stupid you are.”
“Many thanks for the advice--and the insinuations,” said Mrs. Burton.
“I feel as if the latter were specially pertinent, from the daze my
head is in. I never knew before how necessary it was to be nobody in
order to be somebody.”
The boys took possession of their father, one on each knee, and Tom
rocked with them and chatted in a low tone to them, and hummed a tune,
and finally broke into a song, and as it happened to be one of the
variety known as “roaring,” his brother-in-law joined him, and the air
recalled old friends and old associations, and both voices grew louder,
and the ladies caught the air and increased its volume with their own
voices, when suddenly a very shrill thin voice was heard above their
heads, and Mrs. Lawrence exclaimed:
“Sh--h--h! The baby is awake.”
Subsequent sounds indicated beyond doubt that Mrs. Lawrence was correct
in her supposition, and she started instinctively for the upper floor,
but found herself arrested by her husband’s arm and anxious face, while
Mrs. Burton exclaimed,
“Oh, bring it down here! Please, do!”
The nurse was summoned, and soon appeared with a wee bundle of
flannel, linen, pink face and fingers.
“Give her to me!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, rising to take the baby, but
the baby exclaimed “Ah!” and its mother snatched it. Then the baby did
its best to hide in its mother’s bosom, and its mother did her best
to help it, and by the merest chance a rosy little foot escaped from
its covering, seeing which Mrs. Burton hurriedly moved her chair and
covered the foot with both her hands; though it would have been equally
convenient and far less laborious to have tucked the foot back among
its habitual wrappings. Then the boys had to be moved nearer the baby,
so that they could touch it, and try to persuade it to coo; and Harry
Burton found himself sitting so far from any one else that he drew
his chair closer to the group, just to be sociable; and the Lawrences
grew gradually to look very happy, while the Burtons grew more and
more solemn, and at last the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Burton met under
the superabundant wraps of the baby, and then their eyes met, and the
lady’s eyes were full of tears and her husband’s full of tenderness,
and Budge, who had taken in the whole scene, broke the silence by
remarking;
“Why, Aunt Alice, what are you crying for?”
Then every one looked up and looked awkward, until Mrs. Lawrence leaned
over the baby and kissed her sister-in-law, noticing which the two men
rose abruptly, although Tom Lawrence found occasion to indulge in the
ceremony of taking Harry Burton by the hand. Then the baby yielded
to her aunt’ solicitations, and changed her resting-place for a few
moments, and the gentlemen were informed that if they wanted to smoke
they would have to do it in the dining-room, for Mrs. Lawrence was not
yet able to bear it. Then the gentlemen adjourned and stared at each
other as awkwardly over their cigars as if they had never met before,
and the ladies chatted as confidentially as if they were twin sisters
that had never been separated, and the boys were carried back to bed,
one by each gentleman, and they were re-kissed good night, and their
father and uncle were departing when Toddie remarked,
“Papa, mamma hazhn’t gived our sister-baby to Aunt Alish to keep, hazh
she?”
“No, old chap,” said Tom.
“I don’t want anybody to have that sister-baby but us,” said Budge;
“but if anybody had to, Aunt Alice would be the person. Do you know, I
believe she was prayin’ to it, she looked so funny.”
[Illustration: A LITTLE VISITOR AT THE BURTONS’]
The gentlemen winked at each other, and again Tom Lawrence took the
hand of his brother-in-law. Several months later, the apprehensions
of the boys were quieted by the appearance of a little visitor at the
Burtons’, who acted as if she had come to stay, and who in the course
of years cured Mrs. Burton of every assumption of the ability of
relatives to manage “Other People’s Children.”
THE END.
FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS
Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. Library size.
Printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked
beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents a volume,
postpaid.
BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK. By George Barr McCutcheon. With Color
Frontispiece and other illustrations by Harrison Fisher. Beautiful
inlay picture in colors of Beverly on the cover.
“The most fascinating, engrossing and picturesque of the season’
novels.”--_Boston Herald._ “’Beverly’s is altogether charming--almost
living flesh and blood.”--_Louisville Times._ “Better than
‘Graustark’.”--_Mail and Express._ “A sequel quite as impossible as
‘Graustark’s and quite as entertaining.”--_Bookman._ “A charming love
story well told.”--_Boston Transcript_.
HALF A ROGUE. By Harold MacGrath. With illustrations and inlay cover
picture by Harrison Fisher.
“Here are dexterity of plot, glancing play at witty talk, characters
really human and humanly real, spirit and gladness, freshness and quick
movement. ‘Half a Rogue’s is as brisk as a horseback ride on a glorious
morning. It is as varied as an April day. It is as charming as two most
charming girls can make it. Love and honor and success and all the
great things worth fighting for and living for the involved in ‘Half a
Rogue.’”--_Phila. Press._
THE GIRL FROM TIM’S PLACE. By Charles Clark Munn. With illustrations
by Frank T. Merrill.
“Figuring in the pages of this story there are several strong
characters. Typical New England folk and an especially sturdy one, old
Cy Walker, through whose instrumentality Chip comes to happiness and
fortune. There is a chain of comedy, tragedy, pathos and love, which
makes a dramatic story.”--_Boston Herald._
THE LION AND THE MOUSE. A story of American Life. By Charles Klein,
and Arthur Hornblow. With illustrations by Stuart Travis, and Scenes
from the Play.
The novel duplicated the success of the play; in fact the book is
greater than the play. A portentous clash of dominant personalities
that form the essence of the play are necessarily touched upon but
briefly in the short space of four acts. All this is narrated in the
novel with a wealth of fascinating and absorbing detail, making it one
of the most powerfully written and exciting works of fiction given to
the world in years.
BARBARA WINSLOW, REBEL. By Elizabeth Ellis. With illustrations by John
Rae, and colored inlay cover.
The following, taken from story, will best describe the heroine: A
TOAST: “To the bravest comrade in misfortune, the sweetest companion
in peace and at all times the most courageous of women.”--_Barbara
Winslow._ “A romantic story, buoyant, eventful, and in matters of love
exactly what the heart could desire.”--_New York Sun._
SUSAN. By Ernest Oldmeadow. With a color frontispiece by Frank
Haviland. Medalion in color on front cover.
Lord Ruddington falls helplessly in love with Miss Langley, whom he
sees in one of her walks accompanied by her maid, Susan. Through a
misapprehension of personalities his lordship addresses a love missive
to the maid. Susan accepts in perfect good faith, and an epistolary
love-making goes on till they are disillusioned. It naturally makes a
droll and delightful little comedy; and is a story that is particularly
clever in the telling.
WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE. By Jean Webster. With illustrations by C.
D. Williams.
“The book is a treasure.”--_Chicago Daily News._ “Bright, whimsical,
and thoroughly entertaining.”--_Buffalo Express._ “One of the best
stories of life in a girl’s college that has ever been written.”--_N.
Y. Press._ “To any woman who has enjoyed the pleasures of a college
life this book cannot fail to bring back many sweet recollections; and
to those who have not been to college the wit, lightness, and charm of
Patty are sure to be no less delightful.”--_Public Opinion._
THE MASQUERADER. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. With illustrations by
Clarence F. Underwood.
“You can’t drop it till you have turned the last page.”--_Cleveland
Leader._ “Its very audacity of motive, of execution, of solution,
almost takes one’s breath away. The boldness of its denouement is
sublime.”--_Boston Transcript._ “The literary hit of a generation.
The best of it is the story deserves all its success. A masterly
story.”--_St. Louis Dispatch._ “The story is ingeniously told, and
cleverly constructed.”--_The Dial._
THE GAMBLER. By Katherine Cecil Thurston. With illustrations by John
Campbell.
“Tells of a high strung young Irish woman who has a passion for
gambling, inherited from a long line of sporting ancestors. She has a
high sense of honor, too, and that causes complications. She is a very
human, lovable character, and love saves her.”--_N. Y. Times._
THE AFFAIR AT THE INN. By Kate Douglas Wiggin. With illustrations by
Martin Justice.
“As superlatively clever in the writing as it is entertaining in
the reading. It is actual comedy of the most artistic sort, and it
is handled with a freshness and originality that is unquestionably
novel.”--_Boston Transcript._ “A feast of humor and good cheer, yet
subtly pervaded by special shades of feeling, fancy, tenderness, or
whimsicality. A merry thing in prose.”--_St. Louis Democrat._
ROSE O’ THE RIVER. By Kate Douglas Wiggin. With illustrations by
George Wright.
“‘Rose o’ the River,’s a charming bit of sentiment, gracefully written
and deftly touched with a gentle humor. It is a dainty book--daintily
illustrated.”--_New York Tribune._ “A wholesome, bright, refreshing
story, an ideal book to give a young girl.”--_Chicago Record-Herald._
“An idyllic story, replete with pathos and inimitable humor. As
story-telling it is perfection, and as portrait-painting it is true to
the life.”--_London Mail._
TILLIE: A Mennonite Maid. By Helen R. Martin. With illustrations by
Florence Scovel Shinn.
The little “Mennonite Maid” who wanders through these pages is
something quite new in fiction. Tillie is hungry for books and beauty
and love; and she comes into her inheritance at the end. “Tillie is
faulty, sensitive, big-hearted, eminently human, and first, last and
always lovable. Her charm glows warmly, the story is well handled, the
characters skilfully developed.”--_The Book Buyer._
LADY ROSE’S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Humphry Ward. With illustrations by
Howard Chandler Christy.
“The most marvellous work of its wonderful author.”--_New York World._
“We touch regions and attain altitudes which it is not given to the
ordinary novelist even to approach.”--_London Times._ “In no other
story has Mrs. Ward approached the brilliancy and vivacity of Lady
Rose’s Daughter.”--_North American Review._
THE BANKER AND THE BEAR. By Henry K. Webster.
“An exciting and absorbing story.”--_New York Times._ “Intensely
thrilling in parts, but an unusually good story all through. There is a
love affair of real charm and most novel surroundings, there is a run
on the bank which is almost worth a year’s growth, and there is all
manner of exhilarating men and deeds which should bring the book into
high and permanent favor.”--_Chicago Evening Post._
NATURE BOOKS
With Colored Plates, and Photographs from Life.
BIRD NEIGHBORS. An Introductory Acquaintance with 150 Birds Commonly
Found in the Woods, Fields and Gardens About Our Homes. By Neltje
Blanchan. With an Introduction by John Burroughs, and many plates of
birds in natural colors. Large Quarto, size 7¾ × 10⅜, Cloth. Formerly
published at $2.00. Our special price, $1.00.
As an aid to the elementary study of bird life nothing has ever been
published more satisfactory than this most successful of Nature Books.
This book makes the identification of our birds simple and positive,
even to the uninitiated, through certain unique features. I. All the
birds are grouped according to color, in the belief that a bird’s
coloring is the first and often the only characteristic noticed. II.
By another classification, the birds are grouped according to their
season. III. All the popular names by which a bird is known are
given both in the descriptions and the index. The colored plates are
the most beautiful and accurate ever given in a moderate-priced and
popular book. The most successful and widely sold Nature Book yet
published.
BIRDS THAT HUNT AND ARE HUNTED. Life Histories of 170 Birds of Prey,
Game Birds and Water-Fowls. By Neltje Blanchan. With Introduction by
G. O. Shields (Coquina). 24 photographic illustrations in color. Large
Quarto, size 7¾ × 10⅜. Formerly published at $2.00. Our special
price, $1.00.
No work of its class has ever been issued that contains so much
valuable information, presented with such felicity and charm. The
colored plates are true to nature. By their aid alone any bird
illustrated may be readily identified. Sportsmen will especially
relish the twenty-four color plates which show the more important
birds in characteristic poses. They are probably the most valuable and
artistic pictures of the kind available to-day.
NATURE’S GARDEN. An Aid to Knowledge of Our Wild Flowers and Their
Insect Visitors. 24 colored plates, and many other illustrations
photographed directly from nature. Text by Neltje Blanchan, Large
Quarto, size 7-3/4 × 10-3/8. Cloth. Formerly published at $3.00 net.
Our special price, $1.25.
* * * * *
Superb color portraits of many familiar flowers in their living tints,
and no less beautiful pictures in black and white of others--each
blossom photographed directly from nature--form an unrivaled series. By
their aid alone the novice can name the flowers met afield.
Intimate life-histories of over five hundred species of wild flowers,
written in untechnical, vivid language, emphasize the marvelously
interesting and vital relationship existing between these flowers and
the special insect to which each is adapted.
The flowers are divided into five color groups, because by this
arrangement any one with no knowledge of botany whatever can readily
identify the specimens met during a walk. The various popular names
by which each species is known, its preferred dwelling-place, months
of blooming and geographical distribution follow its description.
Lists of berry-bearing and other plants most conspicuous after the
flowering season, of such as grow together in different kinds of soil,
and finally of family groups arranged by that method of scientific
classification adopted by the International Botanical Congress which
has now superseded all others, combine to make “Nature’s Garden” an
indispensable guide.
FAMOUS COPYRIGHT BOOKS IN POPULAR PRICED EDITIONS
Re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. Library size.
Printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked
beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents a volume,
postpaid.
THE SPIRIT OF THE SERVICE. By Edith Elmer Wood. With illustrations by
Rufus Zogbaum.
The standards and life of “the new navy” are breezily set forth with a
genuine ring impossible from the most gifted “outsider.” “The story of
the destruction of the ‘Maine,’s and of the Battle of Manila, are very
dramatic. The author is the daughter of one naval officer and the wife
of another. Naval folks will find much to interest them in ‘The Spirit
of the Service.’”--_The Book Buyer._
A SPECTRE OF POWER. By Charles Egbert Craddock.
Miss Murfree has pictured Tennessee mountains and the mountain people
in striking colors and with dramatic vividness, but goes back to the
time of the struggles of the French and English in the early eighteenth
century for possession of the Cherokee territory. The story abounds in
adventure, mystery, peril and suspense.
THE STORM CENTRE. By Charles Egbert Craddock.
A war story; but more of flirtation, love and courtship than of
fighting or history. The tale is thoroughly readable and takes its
readers again into golden Tennessee, into the atmosphere which has
distinguished all of Miss Murfree’s novels.
THE ADVENTURESS. By Coralie Stanton. With color frontispiece by
Harrison Fisher, and attractive inlay cover in colors.
As a penalty for her crimes, her evil nature, her flint-like
callousness, her more than inhuman cruelty, her contempt for the laws
of God and man, she was condemned to bury her magnificent personality,
her transcendent beauty, her superhuman charms, in gilded obscurity at
a King’s left hand. A powerful story powerfully told.
THE GOLDEN GREYHOUND. A Novel by Dwight Tilton. With illustrations by
E. Pollak.
A thoroughly good story that keeps you guessing to the very end, and
never attempts to instruct or reform you. It is a strictly up-to-date
story of love and mystery with wireless telegraphy and all the modern
improvements. The events nearly all take place on a big Atlantic liner
and the romance of the deep is skilfully made to serve as a setting for
the romance, old as mankind, yet always new, involving our hero.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, NEW YORK
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Hyphenation
have been standardised except where it appears to have been used for
emphasis, but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
A table of contents has been added.
Italics are represented thus _italic_ and bold thus =bold=. In the
following paragraph in Chapter III the Said has been added.
“Oh, no, I won’t. I only said ’twas something to eat. But say, Aunt
Alice, how do bananas grow?” [said] Toddie, with brightening eyes and
a confident shake of his curly head.