Budge & Toddie; Or, Helen's Babies at Play. Habberton John

station. Remembering the story, dear to all makers of school reading-books, of the boy whose sailor father saw him perched upon the mainyard, Mr. Burton stood beneath the scaffolding and shouted to Toddie:

      “JUMP!” SHOUTED MR. BURTON

      “Jump!”

      “I can’t,” screamed Toddie.

      “Jump!” shouted Mr. Burton, with increased energy.

      “Tell you I can’t,” repeated Toddie. “Wezh playin’ Tower of Babel, an’ hazh had our talks made different like de folks did den, an’ when I tells Budge to bring buicksh, he only buingzh mortar, an’ when I wantsh mortar he buings buicksh. An’ den we talksh like you an’ Aunt Alice did yestuday at de table.”

      “Yes,” said Budge, appearing from the inside of the building with an armful of blocks. “Just listen.” And the young man chattered for a moment or two in a dialect never even dimly hinted at except by a convention of monkeys.

      Mr. Burton cautiously climbed the ladder, brought down one boy at a time, kissed them both and shook them soundly, after which the three wended homeward, the boys having sawdust on every portion of their clothes not already soiled by dirt, and most of Mrs. Burton’s callers meeting the party en route.

      Mr. Burton found his wife brilliantly conversational, yet averse to talking about her nephews. The exercise which they had been compelled to take in their emulation of the architects of the incomplete building on the plain of Shinar gave them excellent appetites and silenced tongues; but after his capacity had been tested to the uttermost Budge said:

      “It’s time for Tod to do his punishment now, Aunt Alice. Don’t you know?”

      Mrs. Burton winked at her husband, and nodded approvingly to Budge.

      “Come, Tod,” said Budge, “you must tell your awful sad story now, an’ feel bad.”

      “Guesh I’ll tell ’bout Peter Gray,” said Toddie; “thatsh awful sad.”

      “Who was Peter Gray?” asked Mrs. Burton.

      “He’s a dzentleman dat a dyty little boy in the nexsht street to us sings ’bout,” said Toddie, “only I don’t sing ’bout him—I only tellsh it. It’s dzust as sad that-a-way.”

      “Go on,” said Budge.

      “Once was a man,” said Toddie, with great solemnity, “an’ his name was Peter Gray. An’ he loved a lady. An’ he says to her papa, ‘I wantsh to marry your little gyle.’ An’ what you fink dat papa said? He said, ‘No!’ ” (this with great emphasis). “That izhn’t as hard as he said it, eiver, but it’s azh hard as I can say it. It’s puffikly dzedful when Jimmy sings it. An’ Peter Gray felt awful bad den, an’ he went out Wesht, to buy de shkinzh dat comes off of animals an’ fings, dough how dat made him feel nicer Jimmy don’t sing ’bout. An’ bad Injuns caught him an’ pulled his hair off, djust like ladies pull deirsh off sometimezh. An’ when dat lady heard ’bout it, it made her feel so bad dat she went to bed an’ died. Datsh all. Uncle Harry, ain’t you got to be punished for somefin’, so you can tell ush a story?”

      “It’s time little boys were in bed now,” said Mrs. Burton, arising and taking Toddie in her arms.

      “Oh, dear!” said Budge. “I wish I was a little boy in China, an’ just gettin’ up.”

      “So does I,” said Toddie; “ ’cause den you would have a tay-al on your head an’ I could pull it!”

      The boys retired, and Mrs. Burton broke her reticence so far as to tell her husband the story she had heard in the morning, and to insist that he was to arise early enough in the morning to unearth the buried bird and throw it away.

      “It’s perfectly dreadful,” said she, “that those children should be encouraged in making trifling applications of great truths, and I am determined, as far as possible, to prevent the effects by removing the causes.”

      And her husband put on an exasperating smile and shook his head profoundly.