"NOW I guess we are all right."
The supper was an exquisite one, but the appetites of those dreadful
children effectually prevented my enjoying the repast. I hastily
retired, called the girl, and instructed, her to see that the children
had enough to eat, and were put to bed immediately after; then I lit a
cigar and strolled into the garden. The roses were just in bloom, the
air was full of the perfume of honeysuckles, the rhododendrons had not
disappeared, while I saw promise of the early unfolding of many other
pet flowers of mine. I confess that I took a careful survey of the
garden to see how fine a bouquet I might make for Miss Mayton, and was
so abundantly satisfied with the material before me that I longed to
begin the work at once, but that it would seem too hasty for true
gentility. So I paced the paths, my hands behind my back, and my face
well hidden by fragrant clouds of smoke, and went into wondering and
reveries. I wondered if there was any sense in the language of flowers,
of which I had occasionally seen mention made by silly writers; I
wished I had learned it if it had any meaning; I wondered if Miss
Mayton understood it. At any rate, I fancied I could arrange flowers to
the taste of any lady whose face I had ever seen; and for Alice Mayton
I would make something so superb that her face could not help lighting
up when she beheld it. I imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would
brighten, her cheeks would redden,--not with sentiment, not a bit of
it; but with genuine pleasure,--how her strong lips would part slightly
and disclose sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well
in hand. I--I, a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of white
goods--actually wished I might be divested of all nineteenth-century
abilities and characteristics, and be one of those fairies that only
silly girls and crazy poets think of, and might, unseen, behold the
meeting of my flowers with this highly cultivated specimen of the only
sort of flowers our cities produce. What flower did she most resemble?
A lily?--no; too--not exactly too bold, but too--too, well, I couldn't
think of the word, but clearly it wasn't bold. A rose! Certainly, not
like those glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the shy,
delicate, ethereal tea-roses with their tender suggestions of color.
Like this perfect Gloire de Dijon, perhaps; strong, vigorous,
self-asserting, among its more delicate sisterhood; yet shapely,
perfect in outline and development, exquisite, enchanting in its never
fully-analyzed tints, yet compelling the admiration of every one, and
recalling its admirers again and again by the unspoken appeal of its
own perfection--its unvarying radiance.
"Ah--h--h--h--ee--ee--ee--ee--ee--oo--oo--oo--oo" came from the window
over my head. Then came a shout of--"Uncle Harry!" in a voice I
recognized as that of Budge. I made no reply: there are moments when
the soul is full of utterances unfit to be heard by childish ears.
"Uncle Har-RAY!" repeated Budge. Then I heard a window-blind open, and
Budge exclaiming:--
"Uncle Harry, we want you to come and tell us stories."
I turned my eyes upward quickly, and was about to send a savage
negative in the same direction, when I saw in the window a face unknown
and yet remembered. Could those great, wistful eyes, that angelic
mouth, that spiritual expression, belong to my nephew Budge? Yes, it
must be--certainly that super-celestial nose and those enormous ears
never belonged to any one else. I turned abruptly, and entered the
house, and was received at the head of the stairway by two little
figures in white, the larger of which remarked:--
"We want you tell us stories--papa always does nights."
"Very well, jump into bed--what kind of stories do you like?"
"Oh, 'bout Jonah," said Budge.
"'Bout Jonah," echoed Toddie.
"Well, Jonah was out in the sun one day and a gourd-vine grew up all of
a sudden, and made it nice and shady for him, and then it all faded as
quick as it came."
A dead silence prevailed for a moment, and then Budge indignantly
remarked:--
"That ain't Jonah a bit--_I_ know 'bout Jonah."
"Oh, you do, do you?" said I. "Then maybe you'll be so good as to
enlighten me?"
"Huh?"
"If you know about Jonah, tell me the story; I'd really enjoy listening
to it."
"Well," said Budge, "once upon a time the Lord told Jonah to go to
Nineveh and tell the people they was all bad. But Jonah didn't want to
go, so he went on a boat that was going to Joppa. And then there was a
big storm, an' it rained an' blowed and the big waves went as high as a
house. An' the sailors thought there must be somebody on the boat that
the Lord didn't like. An' Jonah said he guessed HE was the man. So they
picked him up and froed him in the ocean, an' I don't think it was well
for 'em to do that after Jonah told the troof. An' a big whale was
comin' along, and he was awful hungry, cos the little fishes what he
likes to eat all went down to the bottom of the ocean when it began to
storm, and whales can't go to the bottom of the ocean, cos they have to
come up to breeve, an' little fishes don't. An' Jonah found 'twas all
dark inside the whale, and there wasn't any fire there, an' it was all
wet, and he couldn't take off his clothes to dry, cos there wasn't no
place to hang 'em, an' there wasn't no windows to look out of, nor
nothin' to eat, nor nothin' nor nothin' nor nothin.' So he asked the
Lord to let Mm out, an' the Lord was sorry for him, an' he made the
whale go up close to the land, an' Jonah jumped right out of his mouth,
an' WASN'T he glad? An' then he went to Nineveh, an' done what the Lord
told him to, and he ought to have done it in the first place if he had
known what was good for him."
"Done first payshe, know what's dood for him," asserted Toddie, in
support of his brother's assertion. "Tell us 'nudder story."
"Oh, no, sing us a song," suggested Budge.
"Shing us shong," echoed Toddie.
I searched my mind for a song, but the only one which came promptly was
"M'Appari," several bars of which I gave my juvenile audience, when
Budge interrupted me, saying:--
"I don't think that's a very good song."
"Why not, Budge?"
"Cos I don't. I don't know a word what you're talking 'bout."
"Shing 'bout 'Glory, glory, hallelulyah,'" suggested Toddie, and I
meekly obeyed. The old air has a wonderful influence over me. I heard
it in western camp-meetings and negro-cabins when I was a boy; I saw
the 22d Massachusetts march down Broadway, singing the same air during
the rush to the front during the early days of the war; I have heard it
sung by warrior tongues in nearly every Southern State; I heard it
roared by three hundred good old Hunker Democrats as they escorted New
York's first colored regiment to their place of embarkation; my old
brigade sang it softly, but with a swing that was terrible in its
earnestness, as they lay behind their stacks of arms just before going
to action; I have heard it played over the grave of many a dead
comrade; the semi-mutinous--the cavalry became peaceful and patriotic
again as their band-master played the old air after having asked
permission to try HIS hand on them; it is the same that burst forth
spontaneously in our barracks, on that glorious morning when we learned
that the war was over, and it was sung, with words adapted to the
occasion, by some good rebel friends of mine, on our first social
meeting after the war. All these recollections came hurrying into my
mind as I sang, and probably excited me beyond my knowledge, for Budge
suddenly remarked:--
"Don't sing that all day, Uncle Harry; you sing so loud, it hurts my
head."
"Beg your pardon, Budge," said I. "Good-night."
"Why, Uncle Harry, are you going? You didn't hear us say our
prayers,--papa always does."
"Oh! Well, go ahead."
"You must say yours first," said Budge; "that's the way papa does."
"Very well," said I, and I repeated St. Chrysostom's prayer, from the
Episcopal service. I had hardly said "Amen," when Budge remarked:--
"My papa don't say any of them things at all; I don't think that's a
very good prayer."
"Well, you say a good prayer, Budge."
"Allright." Budge shut his eyes, dropped his voice to the most perfect
tone of supplication, while his face seemed fit for a sleeping angel,
then he said:--
"Dear Lord, we thank you for lettin' us have a good time to-day, an' we
hope all the little boys everywhere have had good times too. We pray
you to take care of us an' everybody else to-night, an' don't let 'em
have any trouble. Oh, yes, an' Uncle Harry's got some candy in his
trunk, cos he said so in the carriage,--we thank you for lettin' Uncle
Harry come to see us, an' we hope he's got LOTS of candy--lots an'
piles. An' we pray you to take good care of all the poor little boys
and girls that haven't got any papas an' mammas an' Uncle Harrys an'
candy an' beds to sleep in. An' take us all to Heaven when we die, for
Christ's sake. Amen. Now give us the candy, Uncle Harry."
"Hush, Budge; don't Toddie say any prayers?"
"Oh yes; go on, Tod."
Toddie closed his eyes, wriggled, twisted, breathed hard and quick,
acting generally as if prayers were principally a matter of physical
exertion. At last he began:--
"Dee Lord, not make me sho bad, an' besh mamma, an' papa, an' Budgie,
and doppity, [Footnote: Grandmother.] an' both boggies, [Footnote:
Grandfathers.] an' all good people in dish house, and everybody else,
an' my dolly. A--a--amen!"
"Now give us the candy," said Budge, with the usual echo from Toddie.
I hastily extracted the candy from my trunk, gave some to each boy, the
recipients fairly shrieking with delight, and once more said good-night.
"Oh, you didn't give us any pennies," said Budge. "Papa gives us some
to put in our banks, every nights."
"Well, I haven't got any now--wait until to-morrow."
"Then we want drinks."
"I'll let Maggie bring you drink."
"Want my dolly," murmured Toddie.
I found the knotted towels, took the dirty things up gingerly and threw
them upon the bed.
"Now want to shee wheels go wound," said Toddie.
I hurried out of the room and slammed the door. I looked at my
watch--it was half-past eight; I had spent an hour and a half with
those dreadful children. They WERE funny to be sure--I found myself
laughing in spite of my indignation. Still, if they were to monopolize
my time as they had already done, when was I to do my reading? Taking
Fiske's "Cosmic Philosophy" from my trunk I descended to the back
parlor, lit a cigar and a student-lamp, and began to read. I had not
fairly commenced when I heard a patter of small feet, and saw my elder
nephew before me. There was sorrowful protestation in every line of his
countenance, as he exclaimed:--
"You didn't say 'Good-by' nor 'God bless you' nor anything."
"Oh--good-by."
"Good-by."
"God bless you."
"God bless you."