Part 5

"Oh, yes," cried Budge, clapping his hands, as a happy thought struck him. "He gets down the Bible--the great _big_ Bible, you know--an' we all lay on the floor, an' he reads us stories out of it. There's David, an' Noah, an' when Christ was a little boy, an' Joseph, an' turnbackPharo'sarmyhallelujah--"

"And what?"

"TurnbackPharo'sarmyhallelujah," repeated Budge. "Don't you know how Moses held out his cane over the Red Sea, an' the water went way up one side, an' way up the other side, and all the Isrulites went across? It's just the same thing as _drown_oldPharo'sarmyhallelujah--don't you know?"

"Budge," said I, "I suspect you of having heard the Jubilee Singers."

"Oh, and papa and mama sings us all those Jubilee songs--there's 'Swing Low,' an' 'Roll Jordan,' an' 'Steal Away,' an' 'My Way's Cloudy,' an' 'Get on Board, Childuns,' an' lots. An' you can sing us every one of 'em."

"An' papa takes us in the woods, an' makesh us canes," said Toddie.

"Yes," said Budge, "and where there's new houses buildin', he takes us up ladders."

"Has he any way of putting an extension on the afternoon?" I asked.

"I don't know what that is," said Budge, "but he puts an India-rubber blanket on the grass, and then we all lie down an' make b'lieve we're soldiers asleep. Only sometimes when we wake up papa stays asleep, an' mama won't let us wake him. I don't think that's a very nice play."

"Well, I think Bible stories are nicer than anything else, don't you?"

Budge seemed somewhat in doubt. "I think swingin' is nicer," said he--"oh, no;--let's get some jacks--_I'll_ tell you what!--make us whistles, an' we can blow on 'em while we're goin' to get the jacks. Toddie, dear, wouldn't _you_ like jacks and whistles?"

"Yesh--an' swingin'--an' birch--an' wantsh to go to Hawksnesh Rock," answered Toddie.

"Let's have Bible stories first," said I. "The Lord mightn't like it if you didn't learn anything good to-day."

"Well," said Budge, with the regulation religious-matter-of-duty face, "let's. I guess I like 'bout Joseph best."

"Tell us 'bout Bliaff," suggested Toddie.

"Oh, no, Tod," remonstrated Budge; "Joseph's coat was just as bloody as Goliath's head was." Then Budge turned to me and explained that "all Tod likes Goliath for is 'cause when his head was cut off it was all bloody." And then Toddie--the airy sprite whom his mother described as being irresistibly drawn to whatever was beautiful--Toddie glared upon me as a butcher's apprentice might stare at a doomed lamb, and remarked:

"Bliaff's head was all bluggy, an' David's sword was all bluggy--bluggy as everyfing."

I hastily breathed a small prayer, opened the Bible, turned to the story of Joseph, and audibly condensed it as I read:

"Joseph was a good little boy whose papa loved him very dearly. But his brothers didn't like him. And they sold him, to go to Egypt. And he was very smart, and told the people what their dreams meant, and he got to be a great man. And his brothers went to Egypt to buy corn, and Joseph sold them some, and then he let them know who he was. And he sent them home to bring their papa to Egypt, and then they all lived there together."

"That's ain't it," remarked Toddie, with the air of a man who felt himself to be unjustly treated. "Is it, Budge?"

"Oh, no," said Budge, "you didn't read it good a bit; _I'll_ tell you how it is. Once there was a little boy named Joseph, an' he had eleven budders--they was _awful_ eleven budders. An' his papa gave him a new coat, an' his budders hadn't nothin' but their old jackets to wear. An' one day he was carryin' 'em their dinner, an' they put him in a deep, dark hole, but they didn't put his nice new coat in--they killed a kid, an' dipped the coat--just think of doin' that to a nice new coat--they dipped it in the kid's blood, an' made it all bloody."

"All bluggy," echoed Toddy, with ferocious emphasis. Budge continued:

"But there were some Ishmalites comin' along that way, and the awful eleven budders took him out of the deep, dark hole, an' sold him to the Ishmalites, and they sold him away down in Egypt. An' his poor old papa cried, an' cried, 'cause he thought a big lion ate Joseph up; but he wasn't ate up a bit; but there wasn't no post-office nor choo-choos,[1] nor stages in Egypt, an' there wasn't any telegraphs, so Joseph couldn't let his papa know where he was; an' he got so smart an' so good that the king of Egypt let him sell all the corn an' take care of the money; an' one day some men came to buy some corn, an' Joseph looked at 'em an' there they was his own budders! An' he scared 'em like everything; _I'd_ have _slapped_ 'em all if _I'd_ been Joseph, but he just scared 'em, an' then he let 'em know who he was, an' he kissed 'em an' he didn't whip 'em, or make 'em go without their breakfast, or stand in a corner, nor none of them things; an' then he sent 'em back for their papa, an' when he saw his papa comin', he ran like everything, and gave him a great big hug and a kiss. Joseph was too big to ask his papa if he'd brought him any candy, but he was awful glad to see him. An' the king gave Joseph's papa a nice farm, an' they all had real good times after that."

"And they dipped the coat in the blood, an' made it all bluggy," reiterated Toddie.

"Uncle Harry," said Budge, "what do you think _my_ papa would do if he thought I was all ate up by a lion? I guess he'd cry _awful_, don't you? Now tell us another story--oh, _I'll_ tell you--read us 'bout--"

"'Bout Bliaff," interrupted Toddie.

"_You_ tell _me_ about him, Toddie," said I.

"Why," said Toddie, "Bliaff was a brate bid man, an' Dave was brate little man, an' Bliaff said, 'Come over here'n an' I'll eat you up,' an' Dave said, '_I_ ain't fyaid of you.' So Dave put five little stones in a sling an' asked de Lord to help him, an' let ze sling go bang into bequeen Bliaff's eyes an' knocked him down dead, an' Dave took Bliaff's sword an' sworded Bliaff's head off, an' made it all bluggy, an' Bliaff runned away." This short narration was accompanied by more spirited and unexpected gestures than Mr. Gough ever puts into a long lecture.

"I don't like 'bout Goliath at all," remarked Budge. "_I'd_ like to hear 'bout Ferus."

"Who?"

"Ferus; don't you know?"

"Never heard of him, Budge."

"Why--y--y--!" exclaimed Budge; "didn't you have no papa when you was a little boy?"

"Yes, but he never told me about any one named Ferus; there's no such person named in Anthon's Classical Dictionary, either. What sort of a man was he?"

"Why, once there was a man, an' his name was Ferus--_Of_ferus, an' he went about fightin' for kings, but when any king got afraid of anybody, he wouldn't fight for him no more. An' one day he couldn't find no kings that wasn't afraid of nobody. An' the people told him the Lord was the biggest king in the world, an' he wasn't afraid of nobody or nothing. An' he asked 'em where he could find the Lord, an' they said he was way up in heaven so nobody couldn't see him but the angels, but he liked folks to _work_ for him instead of fight. So Ferus wanted to know what kind of work he could do, an' the people said there was a river not far off, where there wasn't no ferry-boats, cos the water run so fast, an' they guessed if he'd carry folks across, the Lord would like it. So Ferus went there, an' he cut him a good, strong cane, an' whenever anybody wanted to go across the river he'd carry 'em on his back.

"One night he was sittin' in his little house by the fire, an' smokin' his pipe an' readin' the paper, an' 'twas rainin' an' blowin' an' hailin' an' stormin', an' he was so glad there wasn't anybody wantin' to go 'cross the river, when he heard somebody call one 'Ferus!' An' he looked out the window, but he couldn't see nobody, so he sat down again. Then somebody called 'Ferus!' again, and he opened the door again, an' there was a little bit of a boy, 'bout as big as Toddie. An' Ferus said, 'Hello, young fellow, does your mother know you're out?' An' the little boy said, 'I want to go 'cross the river.'--'Well,' says Ferus, 'you're a mighty little fellow to be travelin' alone, but hop up.' So the little boy jumped up on Ferus's back, and Ferus walked into the water. Oh, my--_wasn't_ it cold? An' every step he took that little boy got heavier, so Ferus nearly tumbled down an' they liked to both got drownded. An' when they got across the river Ferus said, 'Well, you _are_ the heaviest small fry I ever carried,' and he turned around to look at him, an' 'twasn't no little boy at all--'twas a big man--'twas Christ. An' Christ said, 'Ferus, I heard you was tryin' to work for me, so I thought I'd come down an' see you, an' not let you know who I was. An' now you shall have a new name; you shall be called _Christ_offerus, cos that means Christ-carrier.' An' everybody called him Christofferus after that, an' when he died they called him _Saint_ Christopher, cos Saint is what they called good people when they're dead."

Budge himself had the face of a rapt saint as he told this story, but my contemplation of his countenance was suddenly arrested by Toddie, who, disapproving of the unexciting nature of his brother's recital, had strayed into the garden, investigated a hornet's nest, been stung, and set up a piercing shriek. He ran in to me, and as I hastily picked him up, he sobbed:

"Want to be wocked.[2] Want 'Toddie one boy day.'"

I rocked him violently, and petted him tenderly, but again he sobbed:

"Want 'Toddie one boy day.'"

"What _does_ the child mean?" I exclaimed.

"He wants you to sing to him about 'Charley boy one day,'" said Budge. "He always wants mama to sing that when he's hurt, an' then he stops crying."

"I don't know it," said I. "Won't 'Roll, Jordan,' do, Toddie?"

"_I'll_ tell you how it goes," said Budge, and forthwith the youth sang the following song, a line at a time, I following him in words and air:

"Where is my little bastik[3] gone?" Said Charley boy one day; "I guess some little boy or girl Has taken it away.

"An' kittie, too--where _ish_ she gone? Oh, dear, what I shall do? I wish I could my bastik find, An' little kittie, too.

"I'll go to mamma's room an' look; Perhaps she may be there; For kittie likes to take a nap In mamma's easy chair.

"O mamma, mamma, come an' look? See what a little heap! Here's kittie in the bastik here, All cuddled down to sleep."

Where the applicability of this poem to my nephew's peculiar trouble appeared, I could not see, but as I finished it, his sobs gave place to a sigh of relief.

"Toddie," said I, "do you love your Uncle Harry?"

"Esh, I _do_ love you."

"Then tell me how that ridiculous song comforts you?"

"Makes me feel good, an' all nicey," replied Toddie.

"Wouldn't you feel just as good if I sang, 'Plunged in a gulf of dark despair?'"

"No, don't like dokdishpairs; if a dokdishpair done anyfing to me, I'd knock it right down dead."

With this extremely lucid remark, our conversation on this particular subject ended; but I wondered, during a few uneasy moments, whether the temporary mental aberration which had once afflicted Helen's grandfather and mine was not reappearing in this, his youngest descendant. My wondering was cut short by Budge, who remarked, in a confident tone:

"Now, Uncle Harry, we'll have the whistles, I guess."

I acted upon the suggestion, and led the way to the woods. I had not had occasion to seek a hickory sapling before for years; not since the war, in fact, when I learned how hot a fire small hickory sticks would make. I had not sought wood for whistles since--gracious, nearly a quarter of a century ago! The dissimilar associations called up by these recollections threatened to put me in a frame of mind which might have resulted in a bad poem, had not my nephews kept up a lively succession of questions such as no one but children can ask. The whistles completed, I was marched, with music, to the place where the "Jacks" grew. It was just such a place as boys instinctively delight in--low, damp, and boggy, with a brook hiding treacherously away under overhanging ferns and grasses. The children knew by sight the plant which bore the "Jacks," and every discovery was announced by a piercing shriek of delight. At first I looked hurriedly toward the brook as each yell clove the air; but, as I became accustomed to it, my attention was diverted by some exquisite ferns. Suddenly, however, a succession of shrieks announced that something was wrong, and across a large fern I saw a small face in a great deal of agony. Budge was hurrying to the relief of his brother, and was soon as deeply imbedded as Toddie was in the rich black mud, at the bottom of the brook. I dashed to the rescue, stood astride the brook, and offered a hand to each boy, when a treacherous tuft of grass gave way, and, with a glorious splash, I went in myself. This accident turned Toddie's sorrow to laughter, but I can't say I made light of my misfortune on that account. To fall into _clean_ water is not pleasant, even when one is trout-fishing; but to be clad in white pants, and suddenly drop nearly knee-deep in the lap of mother Earth is quite a different thing. I hastily picked up the children, and threw them upon the bank, and then wrathfully strode out myself, and tried to shake myself as I have seen a Newfoundland dog do. The shake was not a success--it caused my trouser-leg to flap dismally about my ankles, and sent the streams of loathsome ooze trickling down into my shoes. My hat, of drab felt, had fallen off by the brookside, and been plentifully spattered as I got out. I looked at my youngest nephew with speechless indignation.

"Uncle Harry," said Budge, "'twas real good of the Lord to let you be with us, else Toddie might have been drownded."

"Yes," said I, "and I shouldn't have much--"

"Ocken Hawwy," cried Toddie, running impetuously toward me, pulling me down, and patting my cheek with his muddy black hand, "I _loves_ you for takin' me out de water."

"I accept your apology," said I, "but let's hurry home." There was but one residence to pass, and that, thank fortune, was so densely screened by shrubbery that the inmates could not see the road. To be sure, we were on a favorite driving road, but we could reach home in five minutes, and we might dodge into the woods if we heard a carriage coming. Ha! There came a carriage already, and we--was there ever a sorrier-looking group? There were ladies in the carriage, too--could it be--of course it was--did the evil spirit, which guided those children always, send an attendant for Miss Mayton before he began operations? There she was, anyway--cool, neat, dainty, trying to look collected, but severely flushed by the attempt. It was of no use to drop my eyes, for she had already recognized me; so I turned to her a face which I think must have been just the one--unless more defiant--that I carried into two or three cavalry charges.

"You seem to have been having a real good time together," said she, with a conventional smile, as the carriage passed. "Remember, you're all going to call on me to-morrow afternoon."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Railway cars.

[2] Rocked.

[3] Basket.

A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT

BY JOHN G. SAXE

'Tis twenty years, and something more, Since, all athirst for useful knowledge, I took some draughts of classic lore, Drawn very mild, at ----rd College; Yet I remember all that one Could wish to hold in recollection; The boys, the joys, the noise, the fun; But not a single Conic Section.

I recollect those harsh affairs, The morning bells that gave us panics; I recollect the formal prayers, That seemed like lessons in Mechanics; I recollect the drowsy way In which the students listened to them, As clearly, in my wig, to-day, As when, a boy, I slumbered through them.

I recollect the tutors all As freshly now, if I may say so, As any chapter I recall In Homer or Ovidius Naso. I recollect, extremely well, "Old Hugh," the mildest of fanatics; I well remember Matthew Bell, But very faintly, Mathematics.

I recollect the prizes paid For lessons fathomed to the bottom; (Alas that pencil-marks should fade!) I recollect the chaps who got 'em,-- The light equestrians who soared O'er every passage reckoned stony; And took the chalks,--but never scored A single honor to the pony!

Ah me! what changes Time has wrought, And how predictions have miscarried! A few have reached the goal they sought, And some are dead, and some are married! And some in city journals war; And some as politicians bicker; And some are pleading at the bar-- For jury-verdicts, or for liquor!

And some on Trade and Commerce wait; And some in schools with dunces battle; And some the Gospel propagate; And some the choicest breeds of cattle; And some are living at their ease; And some were wrecked in "the revulsion;" Some served the State for handsome fees, And one, I hear, upon compulsion!

LAMONT, who, in his college days, Thought e'en a cross a moral scandal, Has left his Puritanic ways, And worships now with bell and candle; And MANN, who mourned the negro's fate, And held the slave as most unlucky, Now holds him, at the market rate, On a plantation in Kentucky!

TOM KNOX--who swore in such a tone It fairly might be doubted whether It really was himself alone, Or _Knox_ and Erebus together-- Has grown a very altered man, And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, Now recommends the Christian plan To savages in Otaheite!

Alas for young ambition's vow! How envious Fate may overthrow it!-- Poor HARVEY is in Congress now, Who struggled long to be a poet; SMITH carves (quite well) memorial stones, Who tried in vain to make the law go; HALL deals in hides; and "PIOUS JONES" Is dealing faro in Chicago!

And, sadder still, the brilliant HAYS, Once honest, manly, and ambitious, Has taken latterly to ways Extremely profligate and vicious; By slow degrees--I can't tell how-- He's reached at last the very groundsel, And in New York he figures now, A member of the Common Council!

"HULLO!"

BY SAM WALTER FOSS

W'en you see a man in woe, Walk right up and say "hullo!" Say "hullo," an' "how d'ye do!" "How's the world a usin' you?" Slap the fellow on his back, Bring your han' down with a whack; Waltz right up, an' don't go slow, Grin an' shake an' say "hullo!"

Is he clothed in rags? O sho! Walk right up an' say "hullo!" Rags is but a cotton roll Jest for wrappin' up a soul; An' a soul is worth a true Hale an' hearty "how d'ye do!" Don't wait for the crowd to go, Walk right up an' say "hullo!"

W'en big vessels meet, they say, They saloot an' sail away. Jest the same are you an' me, Lonesome ships upon a sea; Each one sailing his own jog For a port beyond the fog. Let your speakin' trumpet blow, Lift your horn an' cry "hullo!"

Say "hullo," an' "how d'ye do!" Other folks are good as you. W'en you leave your house of clay, Wanderin' in the Far-Away, W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who you be, an' say "hullo!"

THE WARRIOR

BY EUGENE FIELD

Under the window is a man, Playing an organ all the day, Grinding as only a cripple can, In a moody, vague, uncertain way.

His coat is blue and upon his face Is a look of highborn, restless pride, There is somewhat about him of martial grace And an empty sleeve hangs at his side.

"Tell me, warrior bold and true, In what carnage, night or day, Came the merciless shot to you, Bearing your good, right arm away?"

Fire dies out in the patriot's eye, Changed my warrior's tone and mien, Choked by emotion he makes reply, "Kansas--harvest--threshing machine!"

THE TALE OF THE TANGLED TELEGRAM

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

James Trottingham Minton had a cousin who lived in St. Louis. "Cousin Mary," Lucy Putnam discovered by a process of elimination, was the one topic on which the reticent Mr. Minton could become talkative. Mary was his ideal, almost. Let a girl broach the weather, he grew halt of speech; should she bring up literature, his replies were almost inane; let her seek to show that she kept abreast of the times, and talk of politics--then Jimmy seemed to harbor a great fear in his own soul. But give him the chance to make a few remarks about his cousin Mary and he approached eloquence. For this reason Lucy Putnam was wise enough to ask him something about Mary every so often.

Now, the question arises: Why should Lucy Putnam, or any other girl, take any interest in a man who was so thoroughly bashful that his trembling efforts to converse made the light quivering aspen look like a ten-ton obelisk for calmness? The reason was, and is, that woman has the same eye for babies and men. The more helpless these objects, the more interested are the women. The man who makes the highest appeal to a woman is he whose tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth and who does not know what to do with his hands in her presence. She must be a princess, he a slave. Each knows this premise is unsupported by facts, yet it is a joyous fiction while it lasts. James Trottingham Minton was not a whit bashful when with men. No. He called on Mr. Putnam at his office, and with the calmness of an agent collecting rent, asked him for the hand of his daughter.

"Why, Jimmy," Mr. Putnam said good-naturedly, "of course I haven't any objections to make. Seems to me that's a matter to be settled between you and Lucy."

Jimmy smiled confidentially.

"I suppose you're right, Mr. Putnam. But, you see, I've never had the nerve to say anything about it to her."

"Tut, tut. Nothing to be scared of. Nothing at all. What's the matter with you, young man? In my day, if a fellow wanted to marry a girl he wouldn't go and tell her father. He'd marry her first and then ask the old man where they should live."

Mr. Putnam chuckled heavily. Mr. Putnam was possessed of a striking fund of reminiscences of how young men used to do.

"Of course, Mr. Putnam," Jimmy said. "But the girls nowadays are different, and a fel--"