"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."
Budge seemed waiting for something else. At last he said:--
"Papa says, 'God bless everybody.'"
"Well, God bless everybody."
"God bless everybody," responded Budge, and turned silently and
went up-stairs.
"Bless your tormenting honest little heart," I said to myself; "if
men trusted God as you do your papa, how little business there'd
be for preachers to do."
The night was a perfect one. The pure fresh air, the perfume of
the flowers, the music of the insect choir in the trees and
shrubbery--the very season itself seemed to forbid my reading
philosophy, so I laid Fiske aside, delighted myself with a few
rare bits from Paul Hayne's new volume of poems, read a few
chapters of "One Summer," and finally sauntered off to bed.
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