I could hardly have done it just then, though, for Mike solicited
an audience at the back door, and reported that Budge had given
the carriage-sponge to the goat, put handfuls of oats into the
pump-cylinder, pulled hairs out of the black mare's tail, and
with a sharp nail drawn pictures on the enamel of the carriage-
body. Budge made no denial, but looked very much aggrieved, and
remarked that he couldn't never be happy without somebody having
to go get bothered; and he wished there wasn't nobody in the world
but organ-grinders and candy-store men. He followed me into the
house, flung himself into a chair, put on a look which I imagine
Byron wore before he was old enough to be malicious, and
exclaimed:--
"I don't see what little boys was made for anyhow; if ev'rybody
gets cross with them, an' don't let 'em do what they want to. I'll
bet when I get to heaven, the Lord won't be as ugly to me as Mike
is,--an' some other folks, too. I wish I could die and be buried
right away,--me an' the goat--an' go to heaven, where we wouldn't
be scolded."
Poor little fellow! First I laughed inwardly at his idea of
heaven, and then I wondered whether my own was very different from
it, or any more creditable. I had no time to spend even in pious
reflection, however. Budge was quite wet, his shoes were soaking,
and he already had an attack of catarrh; so I took him to his room
and re-dressed him, wondering all the while how much similar
duties my own father had had to do by me had shortened his life,
and how, with such a son as I was, he lived as long as he did.
Pages:
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134