On the morning of the second day of Mrs. Burton’s experiment, the aunt of Budge and Toddie awoke with more than her usual sense of the responsibility and burden of life. Her husband’s description of a charming lot of bric-À-brac and pottery soon to be sold at auction did not stimulate as much inquiry as such announcements usually did, and Mrs. Burton’s cook did not have her usual early morning visit from her watchful mistress. Mrs. Burton was wondering which of her many duties to her nephews should be first attended to; but, as she wondered long without reaching any conclusion an ever-sympathizing Providence came to her assistance, for the children awoke and created such a hubbub directly over her head that she speedily determined that reproof was the first thing in order. Dressing hastily, she went up to the chamber of the innocents, and learned that the noise was occasioned by a heavy antique center-table, which was flying back and forth across the room, the motive power consisting of two pairs of sturdy little arms.

“Hullo, Aunt Alice!” said Budge. “I awful glad you came in. The table’s a choo-choo, you know, an’ my corner’s New York an’ Tod’s is Hillcrest, an’ he’s ticket-agent at one place an’ I at the other. But the choo-choo hasn’t got any engineer, an’ we have to push it, an’ it isn’t fair for ticket-agents to do so much work besides their own. Now you can be engineer. Jump on!”

The extempore locomotive was accommodatingly pushed up to Mrs. Burton with such force as to disturb her equilibrium, but she managed to say:

“Do you do this way with your mamma’ guest-chamber furniture?”

“No,” said Toddie, “’cause why, ’pare-chamber’h always lockted. B’ides dat, papa once tookted all de wheels off our tables—said tables wash too restless.”

“Little boys,” said Mrs. Burton, returning the table to its place, “should never use things which belong to other people without asking permission. Nor should they ever use anything, no matter who it belongs to, in any way but that in which it was made to be used. Did either of you ever see a table on a railroad?”

“’Coursh we did,” said Toddie, promptly; “dere’s a tyne-table at Hillcrest, an’annuvver at Dzersey City. How could choo-choos turn around if dere wasn’t?”

“It’s time to dress for breakfast now,” said Mrs. Burton in some confusion, as she departed.

The children appeared promptly at the table on the ringing of the bell and brought ravenous appetites with them. Mrs. Burton composed a solemn face, rapped on the table with the handle of the carving-knife, and all heads were bowed while the host and hostess silently returned thanks. When the adults raised their heads they saw that two juvenile faces were still closely hidden in two pairs of small hands. Mrs. Burton reverently nodded at each one to attract her husband’ attention, and mentally determined that souls so absorbed in thanksgiving were good ground for better spiritual seed than their parents had ever scattered. Slowly, however, twice ten little fingers separated, and very large eyes peeped inquiringly between them; then Budge suddenly dropped his hands, straightened himself in his chair, and said:

“Why, Uncle Harry! Have you been forgettin’ again how to ask a blessin’?”

And Toddie, looking somewhat complainingly at his uncle, and very hungrily at the steak, remarked:

“Said my blessin’ ’bout fifty timesh.”

“Once would have been sufficient, Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Why didn’t you say yoursh once, den?” asked Toddie.

“I did. We don’t need to talk aloud to have the Lord hear us,” explained Mrs. Burton.

“’Posin’ you don’t,” said Toddie, “I don’t fink it’s a very nysh way to do, to whisper fings to de Lord. When I whisper anyfing mamma says, ‘Toddie, what’s you whisperin’ for? You ’shamed of somefing?’s Guesh you an’ Uncle Harry’s bofe ’shamed at de same time.”

Mr. Burton desired to give his wife a pertinent hint yet dared not while two such vigilant pairs of ears were present. A happy thought struck him and he said in very bad German:

“Is it not time for the reformation to begin?”

And Mrs. Burton answered:—

“It soon will be.”

“That’s awful funny talk,” said Budge. “I wish I could talk that way. That’s just the way ragged, dirty men talk to my papa sometimes, and then he gives ’em lots of pennies. When was you an’ Aunt Alice ragged an’ dirty, so as to learn to talk that way?”

“Budge, Budge!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Thousands of very rich and handsome people talk that way—all German people do.”

“Do they talk to the Lord so?” asked Budge.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Burton.

“Gracious!” exclaimed the young man. “He must be awful smart to understand them.”

Mr. Burton repeated his question in German, but Mrs. Burton kept silent and looked extremely serious, with a ghost of a frown.

“What are you boys and your auntie going to do with yourselves to-day?” asked Mr. Burton, anxious to clear away the cloud of reticence which, since the night before, had been marring his matrimonial sky.

“I guess,” said Budge, looking out through the window, “it’s going to rain; so the best thing will be for Aunt Alice to tell us stories all day long. We never do get enough stories.”

“Just the thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, her face coming from behind the clouds, and with more than its usual radiance.

“Hazh you got plenty of stories in your ’tomach?” asked Toddie, poising his fork in air, regardless of the gravy which trickled down upon his hand from the fragment of meat at the end.

“Dozens of them,” said Mrs. Burton. “I listened to stories in Sunday-school for about ten years, and I’ve never had anybody to tell them to.”

“I don’t think much of Sunday-school stories,” said Budge, with the air of a man indulging in an unsatisfactory retrospect. “There’s always somethin’ at the end of ’em that spoils all the good taste of ’em—somethin’ about bein’ good little boys.”

“Aunt Alice’s stories haven’t any such endings,” said Mr. Burton, with a sneaking desire to commit his wife to a policy of simple amusement. “She knows that little boys want to be good, and she wants to see them happy, too.”

“Aunt Alice will tell you only what you will enjoy, Budge—she promises you that,” said Mrs. Burton. “We will send Uncle Harry away right after breakfast and then you shall have all the stories you want.”

“And cake, too?” asked Toddie. “Mamma always gives us cakesh when she’s tellin’ us stories, so we’ll sit still an’ not wriggle about.”

“No cakes,” said Mrs. Burton, kindly but firmly. “Eating between meals spoils the digestion of little boys, and makes them very cross.”

“I guess that’s what was the matter with Terry yesterday, then,” said Budge. “He was eatin’ a bone between meals, out in the garden yesterday afternoon, and when I took hold of his back legs and tried to play that he was a wheelbarrow, he bit me.”

Mr. Burton gave the dog Terry a sympathetic pat and a bit of meat, making him stand on his hind legs and beg for the latter, to the great diversion of the children. Then, with an affectionate kiss and a look of tender solicitude he wished his wife a happy day and hurried off to the city. Mrs. Burton took the children into the library and picked up a Bible.

“What sort of story would you like first?” she asked, as she slowly turned the leaves.

“One ’bout Abraham, ’cause he ’most killed somebody,” said Toddie, eagerly.

“Oh, no,” said Budge; “one about Jesus, because He was always good to everybody.”

“Dear child,” exclaimed Mrs. Burton. “Goodness always makes people nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Budge; “’cept when they talk about it to little boys. Say, Aunt Alice, what makes good folks always die?”

“Because the Lord needs them, I suppose, Budge.”

“Then don’t he need me?” asked Budge, with a pathetic look of inquiry.

“Certainly, dear,” said Mrs. Burton; “but he wants you to make other people happy first. A great many good people are left in the world for the same reason.”

“Then why couldn’t Jesus be left?” said Budge. “He could make people happier than every one else put together.”

“You’ll understand why, when you grow older,” said Mrs. Burton.

“I wish I’d hurry up about it and grow, then,” said Budge. “Why can’t little boys grow just like little flowers do?—just be put in the ground an’ watered and hoed? Our ’paragus grows half-a-foot in a day almost.”

“You’s a dyty boy to want to be put in de dyte, Budgie,” said Toddie, “an’ I isn’t goin’ to play wif you any more. Mamma says I mustn’t play wif dyty little boys.”

“Dirty boy yourself!” retorted Budge. “You like to play in the dirt, only you cry whenever anybody comes with water to put on you. Say, Aunt Alice, how long does people have to stay in the ground when they die before they go to heaven?”

“Three days, I suppose, Budge,” said Mrs. Burton.

“An’ does everybody that the Lord loves go up to heaven?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, papa says some folks believe that dead people never go to heaven.”

“Never mind what they believe, Budge. You should believe what you are taught,” said Mrs. Burton.

“But I’d like to know for sure.”

“So you will, some day.”

“I wish ’twould be pretty quick about it, then,” said Budge. “Now tell us a story.”

Mrs. Burton drew the children nearer her as she reopened the Bible, when she discovered, to her surprise, that Toddie was crying.

“I hazhn’t talked a bit for ever so long!” he exclaimed, in a high, pathetic tremolo.

“What do you want to say, Toddie?” asked Mrs. Burton.

“I know all ’bout burying folks—that’ what,” said Toddie. “Mamma tolded me all ’bout it one time, she did. An’ yeshterday me and Budgie had a funelal all by ourselves. We found a dear little dead byde. An’ we w’apped it up in a piesh of paper, ’cause a baking-powder box wazn’t bid enough for a coffin, an’ we dugged a little grave, an’ we knelted down an’ said a little prayer, an’ ashked de Lord to take it up to hebben, an’ den we put dyte in the grave an’ planted little flowers all over it. Dat’s what.”

“Yes, an’ we put a little stone at the head of the grave, too, just like big dead folks,” said Budge. “We couldn’t find one with any writin’ on it, but I went home and got a picture-book an’ cut out a little picture of a bird, an’ stuck it on the stone with some tar that I picked out of the groceryman’ wagon-wheel, so that when the angel that takes spirits to heaven comes along, it can see there’s a dead little birdie there waitin’ for him.”

“Yesh,” added Toddie, “an’ little bydie ishn’t like us. ’Twon’t have to wunner how it’ll feel to hazh wings when it gets to be a angel, ’cause ’twas all used to wings ’fore it died.”

“Birds don’t go——” began Mrs. Burton, intending to correct the children’s views as to the future state of the animal kingdom, when there flashed through her mind some of the wonderings of her own girlish days, and the inability of her riper experience to answer them, so she again postponed, and with a renewed sense of its vastness, the duty of reforming the opinions of her nephews on things celestial. At about the same time her cook sought an interview, and complained of the absence of two of the silver tablespoons. Mrs. Burton went into the mingled despondency, suspicion and anger which is the frequent condition of all American women who are unfortunate enough to have servants.

“Where is the chambermaid?” she asked.

“An’ ye’s needn’t be a-suspectin’ av her,” said the cook. “It’s them av yer own family that I’m thinkin’ hez tuk ’em.” And the cook glared suggestively upon the boys. Mrs. Burton accepted the hint.

“Boys, have either of you taken any of auntie’s spoons for anything?”

“No,” answered Toddie, promptly; and Budge looked very saintly and shy, as if he knew something that, through delicacy of feeling and not fear, he shrank from telling.

“What is it, Budge?” asked Mrs. Burton.

“Why, you see,” said Budge, in the sweetest of tones, “we wanted somethin’ yesterday to dig the grave of the birdie with, an’ we couldn’t think of anything else so nice as spoons. There was plenty of ugly old iron ones lyin’ around, but birdies are so sweet an’ nice that I wouldn’t have none of ’em. An’ the dinner-dishes was all lyin’ there with the big silver spoons on top of ’em, so I just got two of ’em—they wasn’t washed yet, but we washed ’em real clean so’s to be real nice about everythin’, so that if the little birdie’ spirit was lookin’ at us it wouldn’t be disgusted.”

“And where are the spoons now?” demanded Mrs. Burton, oblivious to all the witchery of the child’s spirit and appearance.

“I dunno,” said Budge, becoming an ordinary boy in an instant.

“I doeszh,” said Toddie—“I put ’em somewherezh, so when we wanted to play housh nexsht time we wouldn’t have to make b’lieve little sticks was spoons.”

“Show me immediately where they are,” commanded Mrs. Burton, rising from her chair.

“Den will you lend ’em to us nexsht time we playzh housh?” asked Toddie.

“No,” said Mrs. Burton, with cruel emphasis.

Toddie pouted, rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, and led the way to the rear of the garden where, in a hollow at the base of an old apple-tree, were the missing spoons. Wondering whether other valuable property might not be there, Mrs. Burton cautiously and with a stick examined the remaining contents of the hole, and soon discovered one of her damask napkins.

“Datsh goin’ to be our table-cloff,” explained Toddie, “an’ dat”—this, as an unopened pot of French mustard was unearthed “is pizzyves” (preserves).

Mrs. Burton placed her property in the pocket of her apron, led her two nephews into the house, seated them with violence upon a sofa, closed the doors noisily, drew a chair close to the prisoners, and said:

“Now, boys, you are to be punished for taking auntie’s things out of the house without permission.”

“Don’t want to be shpynkted!” screamed Toddie, in a tone which seemed an attempt at a musical duet by a saw-filer and an ungreased wagon-wheel.

“You’re not to be whipped,” continued Mrs. Burton, “but you must learn not to touch things without permission. I think that to go without your dinners would help you to remember that what you have done is naughty.”

“Izhe ’most ’tarved to deff,” exclaimed Toddie, bursting out crying. (N.B. Breakfast has been finished but a scant hour.)

“Then I will put you into an empty room, and keep you there until you are sure you can remember.”

Toddie shrieked as if enduring the thousand tortures of the Chinese executioner, and Budge looked as unhappy as if he were a young man in love and in the throes of reluctant poesy, but Mrs. Burton led them both to the attic, and into an empty room, placed chairs in two corners and a boy in each chair, and said:

“Don’t either of you move out of a chair. Just sit still and think how naughty you’ve been. In an hour or two I’ll come back, and see if you think you can be good boys here-after.”

As Mrs. Burton left the room, she was followed by a shriek that seemed to pierce the walls and be heard over half the earth. Turning hastily, she saw that Toddie, from whom it had proceeded, had neither fallen out of his chair, nor been seized by an epileptic fit, nor stung by some venomous insect; so she closed the door, locked it, softly placed a chair against it, sat down softly and listened. There was silence after the several minutes required by Toddie to weary of his crying, and then Mrs. Burton heard the following conversation:

“Tod?”

“What?”

“We ought to do something!”

“Chop Aunt Alish into little shnipsh of bitsh—datsh what I fink would be nysh.”

“That would be dreadful naughty,” said Budge, “after we’ve bothered her so! We ought to do something good, just like big folks when they’ve been bad.”

“What doezh big folks do?”

“Well, they read the Bible an’ go to church. But you an’ me can’t go to church, ’cause ’tain’t Sunday, an’ we ain’t got no Bible, an’ we wouldn’t know how to read it if we had.”

“Den don’t letsh do noffin’ but be awful mad,” said the unrepentant Toddie. “I’ll tell you what we can do. Let’s do like dat Maggydalen dat mamma’s got a picture of, and dat was bad an’ got sorry; letsh look awful doleful and cwosh. See me.”

Toddie apparently gave an illustration of what he thought the proper penitential countenance and attitude, for Budge exclaimed:

“I don’t think that would look nice at all. It makes you look like a dead puppy-dog with his head turned to one side. I’ll tell you what; we can’t read Bibles like big folks, but we can tell stories out of the Bible, an’ that’ bein’ just as good as if we read ’em.”

“Oh, yes,” said Toddie, repenting at once. “Letsh! I wantsh to be good just awful.”

“Well, what shall we tell about?” asked Budge.

“’Bout when Jesus was a little boy,” said Toddie, “for he was awful good.”

“No,” said Budge; “we’ve been naughty, an’ we must tell about somebody that was awful naughty. I think old Pharaoh’s about the thing.”

“Aw right,” said Toddie. “Tell us ’bout him.”

“Well, once there was a bad old king down in Egypt, that had all the Izzyrelites there an’ made ’em work, an’ when they didn’t work he had ’em banged. But that dear little bit of a Moses, that lived in a basket in the river, grew up to be a man, an’ he just killed one of Pharaoh’s bad bangers, an’ then he skooted an’ hid. An’ the Lord saw that he was the kind of man that was good for somethin’, so he told him he wanted him to make Pharaoh let the poor Izzyrelites go where they wanted to. So Moses went and told Pharaoh. An’ Pharaoh said, ’No, you don’t!’s Then Moses went an’ told the Lord, an’ the Lord got angry, and turned all the water in the river into blood.”

“My!” said Toddie. “Then if anybody wanted to look all bluggy, all he had to do was to go in bavin’, wasn’t it?”

“But he wouldn’t let ’em go then,” continued Budge. “So the Lord made frogs hop out of all the rivers an’ mud-puddles everywhere, and they went into all the houses an’ folks couldn’t keep ’em out.”

“I just wis mamma an’ me’d been in Egypt, den,” said Toddie. “Den she couldn’t make me leave my hop-toads out of doors, if de Lord wanted ’em to stay in de house. I loves hop-toads. I fwallowed one de uvver day, an’ it went way down my ’tomach.”

“Didn’t it kick inside of you?” asked Budge, with natural interest.

“No-o!” said Toddie. “I bited him in two fyst. But he growed togvver ag’in, an’dzust hopped right out froo de top of my head.”

“Let’s see the hole he came out of?” said Budge, starting across the floor.

“It all growded up again right away,” said Toddie, in haste, “an’ you’s a bad boy to get out of your chair when Aunt Alice told you not to, and you’s got to tell annuvver story ’bout naughty folks to pay for it. Gwon!”

Budge returned to his chair, and continued:

“An’ old Pharaoh went down to Moses’s house an’ said, ‘Ask the Lord to make the frogs hop away, an’ you can have your old Izzyrelites—I don’t want ’em.’ So the Lord done it, an’ all the glad old Pharaoh was, was only ’cause he got rid of ’em; an’ he kept the Izzyrelites some more. Then the Lord thought he’d fix ’em sure, so he turned all the dirt into nasty bugs.”

“What did little boys do den, dat wanted dyte to make mud-pies of?” asked Toddie.

“Well, the bugs was only made out of dry dirt,” exclaimed Budge; “just dust like we kick up in the street, you know.”

“Oh,” said Toddie. “I wonder if any of dem bugs was ’tato-bugs?”

“I dunno, but some of ’em was the kind that mammas catch with fine combs after their little boys have been playin’ with dirty children. An’ Pharaoh’s smart men, that thought they could do everythin’, found they couldn’t make them bugs.”

“Why-y-y,” drawled Toddie, “did Pharaoh want some more of ’em?”

“No, I s’pose not, but he stayed bad, so he had to catch it again. The Lord sent whole swarms of flies to Egypt, an’ there wasn’t any mosquito-nets in that country either. An’ then Pharaoh got good again, an’ the Lord took the flies away, an Pharaoh got bad again, so the Lord made all the horses an’ cows awful sick, an’ they all died.”

“Then couldn’t Pharaoh go out ridin’ at all?”

“No. He had to walk, even if he wanted to get to the depot in an awful hurry. An’ it made him so mad that he said the Izzyrelites shouldn’t go anyhow. So Moses took a handful of ashes an’ threw it up in the air before Pharaoh, an’ everybody in all Egypt got sore with boils right away.”

“Ow!” said Toddie, “I had some nashty boils oncesh, but I didn’t know ashes made ’em. I’ll ’member that.”

“An’ Pharaoh said ‘no!’again, so he got some more bothers. The Lord made great big lumps of ice tumble down out of heaven, an’ he made the thunder go bang, an’ the lightnin’ ran around the ground like our fizzers did last Fourth of July, an’ it spoiled all the growing things.”

“Strawberries?” queried Toddie.

“Yes.”

“An’ dear little panzhies?”

“Yes.”

“Poo’s old Pharo’! Gwon.”

“Then Pharaoh’s friends began to tell him he was bein’ a goose, thinkin’ he could be stronger than the Lord, an’ Pharaoh kind o’ thought so himself. So he told Moses that the men-folks of the Izzyrelites might go away if they wanted to, but nobody else.”

“Mean old fing! Who did he fink was goin’ to cook fings—an’ go to school?”

“I dunno, but I guess he had a chance to think about it, for the Lord made whole crowds of locusts come. Them’s grasshoppers, you know, an’ they ate up everythin’ in all the gardens, an’ the folks got half crazy about it.”

“Den I guesh dey didn’t tell their little boysh that they mushn’t kill gwasshoppers, like mamma doesh. Wish I’d been dere! What did he do den?”

“Oh, he was a selfish old pig, just like he was before, so the Lord said, ‘Moses, just hold your hand up to the sky a minute.’ An’ Moses did it, and then it got darker in Egypt than it is in our coal-bin. Folks couldn’t see anythin’ anywhere, an’ wherever they was when it growed dark, they had to stay for three whole days an’ nights.”

“Gwacious!” Toddie exclaimed. “Wouldn’t it be drefful if Moses was to go an’ hold his hand up in the sky while we’s a-sittin’ in dezhe chairzh? Mebbe he will! Let’s holler for Aunt Alish!”

“Oh, he can’t do it now, ’cause he’s dead. Besides that, we ain’t keepin’ any Izzyrelites from doin’ what they want to. Old Pharaoh got awful frightened then, an’ told Moses he might take all the people away, but they mustn’t take their things with ’em—the selfish old fellow! But Moses knew how hard the poor Izzyrelites had to work for the few things they had, so he said they wouldn’t go unless they could carry everythin’ they owned. An’ that made Pharaoh mad, an’ he said, ‘Get out! If I catch you here again I’ll kill you!’s An’ Moses said, ‘Don’t trouble yourself; you won’t see me again unless you want me.’”

“Shouldn’t fink he would,” said Toddie. “Nobody’s goin’ to vizhit kings dzust to have deir heads cutted off. Even our shickens knows enough not to come to Mike when he wants to cut deir heads off. Gwon!”

“Well, then the Lord told Moses somethin’ that must have made him feel awful. He told him that next night every biggest boy in every family was goin’ to be killed by an angel. Ain’t I glad I didn’t live there then! I’d like to see an angel, but not if that’s what he wants to do with me. What would you do if an angel was to kill me, Tod?”

“I’d have all your marbles,” Toddie answered, promptly, “and the goat-cawwiage would be all mine. Gwon!”

“Well, the Lord told Moses about it, an’ Moses told the folks; an’ he told ’em all to kill a little lamb, an’ dip their fingers in the blood, an’ make a cross on their door-posts, so when the angel came along an’ saw it he wouldn’t kill the biggest boy in their houses. An’ that night down came the angel, an’ everybody woke up an’ cried awful—worse than you did when you fell down-stairs the other day, because all the biggest died. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearin’ papas an’ mammas cryin’.”

“Did dey all have funerals den?”

“Of course.”

“Gwacious! Den the little ’Gyptian boys dat didn’t get killed could look at deaders all day long! What did Pharo’s do ’bout it den?”

“He sent right after Moses an’ his brother, in a hurry, an’ he told ’em that he’d been a bad king—just as if they didn’t know that already! An’ he told ’em to take all the Izzyrelites, an’ all their things, an’ go right straight away—he was in such a hurry that he didn’t even invite Moses to the funeral, though he had a dead biggest boy himself. An’ all the Egyptian people came too, and begged the Izzyrelites to hurry an’ go—they didn’t see what they was waitin’ for. They was so glad to get rid of ’em that they lent ’em anything they wanted.”

“Pies an’ cakes?”

“No!” said Budge, contemptuously. “You don’t s’pose folks that’s goin’ off travelin’ for forty years is goin’ to think ’bout eatin’ first thing, do you? They borrowed clothes, an’ money, an’ everything else they could get, an’ left the Egyptians awful poor. An’ off they started.”

“Did they have a ’cursion train?”

“No! All the excursion trains in the world couldn’t have held such lots of people. They rode on camels and donkeys, but lots of ’em walked.”

“I don’t think that was a bit of fun.”

“You would have,” said Budge, “if you’d always had to work like everything. Don’t you ’member how once when mamma made you work, an’ carry away all the blocks you brought up on the piazza from the new buildin’? You walked ’way off to the village to get rid of it.”

“Ye—es,” drawled Toddie, “but I knew I’d be rided back when dey came to look for me. Den what did they do?”

“They started to travel to a nice country that the Lord had told Moses about, an’ they got along till they came to a pretty big ocean where there wasn’t any ferry-boats. I don’t see what Moses took ’em to such a place as that for, unless the Lord wanted to show ’em that no ferry-boats could get the best of Him, when all of a sudden they saw an awful lot of dust bein’ kicked up behind ’em, an’ somebody said that Pharaoh was a-comin’.”

“Should fink he’d seen ’nough of ’em,” said Toddie. “Did he come down to the boat to wave his hanafitch good-by at ’em?”

“No, he knew there wasn’t any boats there, an’ so he came to take ’em back again an’ make ’em work some more.”

“Should fink he’d be afraid de Lord would kill him next.”

“P’r’aps he did; but then, you see, he was awful lazy, an’ didn’t like to work for himself; papa says there’s lots of folks that would rather be killed than do any work.”

“Den what d’s de lazy folks do? They can’t catch any Izzyrelites, can they?”

“No,” said Budge, “but they can do what the Izzyrelites done themselves—they borrow other people’s money. Well, when the folks saw that ’twas Pharaoh a-comin’, they began to grunt, an pitch into poor Moses, an’ told him he ought to be ashamed of hisself to bring ’em away off there to be killed, when they might have died in Egypt without havin’ to walk so far. But Moses said: ‘Shut your mouth, will you? The Lord’s doin’ this job.’ Then the Lord said: ‘Moses, lift up your cane an’ point across the water with it!’s An’ the minute Moses done that, the water of that ocean went way up on one side, and way up on the other side—just like it does in the bathtub sometimes when we’re splashin’, you know—and there was a path right through the bottom of that ocean. An’ the people just skooted right along it!”

“Did they put on their rubbers fyst? ’Cause if they didn’t there must have been lots of little boys spanked when they got across for gettin’ their shoes muddy.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Budge, after a slight pause for reflection. “I must ’member to ask papa about that. But when they all got over they began to grumble some more, for along came Pharaoh’s army right after ’em.”

“I fink they was a lot of good-for-nothing cry-babies,” Toddie exclaimed.

“Huh!” grunted Budge. “I guess you’d have yowled if you’d have been trudgin’ along through the mud ever so long, an’ then seen some soldiers an’ chariots an’ spears an’ bows an’ arrows comin’ to kill you. But the Lord knew just how to manage. He always did. Papa says He always comes in when you think He can’t. He said to Moses, ‘Lift up your cane an’ point it across the ocean again.’s An’ Moses done it, an’ down came that big fence of water on both sides kerswosh! An’ it drownded old Pharaoh an’ the whole good-for-nothin’ lot.”

“Then did the Izzyrelites go to cryin’ some more?”

“Not much! They all got together an’ had a big sing.”

“I know what they sung,” said Toddie. “They all sung ‘TurnbackPharo’army-hallelujah.’”

“No, they didn’t,” said Budge. “They sung that splendid thing mamma sings sometimes, ‘Sound the—loud tim—brel o’er—Egypt’—Egypt’ dark——’”

Budge had with great difficulty repeated the line of the glorious old anthem, then he broke down and burst out crying.

“What’s you cryin’ about?” asked Toddie. “Is you playin’ you’s an Izzyrelite?”

“No,” said Budge; “but whenever I think about that song, somethin’ comes up in my throat and makes me cry.”

The door of the room flew open, there was a rustle and a hurried tread, and Mrs. Burton, her face full of tears, snatched Budge to her breast, and kissed him repeatedly, while Toddie remarked:

“When fings come up in my froat I just fwallows ’em.”

Mrs. Burton conducted her nephews to the parlor floor, and said:

“Now, little boys, it’s nearly lunch time, and I am going to have you nicely washed and dressed, so that if any one comes in you will look like little gentlemen.”

“Ain’t we to be punished any more for bein’ bad?” asked Budge.

“No,” said Mrs. Burton, kindly; “I’m going to trust you to remember and be good.”

“That isn’t what bothers me,” said Budge; “I told a great, long Bible story to Tod up-stairs, so’s to be like big folks when they get bad, as much as I could. But Tod didn’t tell any; I don’t think he’s got his punish.”

“He may tell his to-night, after Uncle Harry gets home,” said Mrs. Burton.

“An’ sit in a chair in the corner of the up-stairs room?” asked Budge.

“I hardly think that will be necessary this time,” answered the lady.

“Then I don’t think you punish fair a bit,” said Budge, with an aggrieved pout.

“I’ll be dzust as sad as I can ’bout it, Budgie,” said Toddie, with a brotherly kiss.

The boys were led off by the chambermaid to be dressed and Mrs. Burton seated herself and devoted herself to earnest thought. Time was flying, her husband had been between dark and breakfast-time most exasperatingly solicitous as to the success of his wife’s theories of government, and not even her genius of self-defense had prevailed against him. She felt that so far she had been steadily vanquished. Her husband had told her in other days that it was always so with the best generals in their first engagements, so she determined that if men had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, she should be able to do so as well. Her desperation at the thought of a long lifetime of “I told you so’” from her husband made her determine that no discomfort should prevent the most earnest endeavor for success.

The luncheon bell aroused her from what had become a reverie in the valley of humiliation, and she found awaiting her at the table her nephews—Budge in a jaunty sailor-suit and Toddie in a clean dress and an immaculate white apron. An old experience caused her to promptly end some researches of Toddie’, instituted to discover whether his aunt’ dishes were really “turtle-pyates,” and an attempt by Budge to drop oysters in the mouth of the dog Terry, as he had seen his uncle do with bread-crusts in the morning, was forcibly brought to a close. Beyond the efforts alluded to, the children did nothing worse than people in good society often do at table. After luncheon, Mrs. Burton said:

“Now, boys, this is Aunt Alice’s receptionday. I will probably have several calls, and every one will want to know about that dear little new baby, and you must be there to tell them. So you must keep yourselves very neat and clean. I know you wouldn’t like to see any dirty people in my parlor!”

“Hatesh to shtay in parlors,” said Toddie. “Wantsh to go and get some jacks” (“Jack-in-the-pulpit”—a swamp plant).

“Not to-day,” said Mrs. Burton, kindly, but firmly. “No one with nice white aprons ever goes for jacks. What would you think if you saw me in a swampy, muddy place, with a nice white apron on, hunting for jacks!”

“Why, I’d fink you could bring home more’n me, ’cause your apron would hold the mosht,” Toddie replied.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Budge, calling Toddie into a corner and whispering earnestly to him. The purity of Budge’s expression of countenance and the tender shyness with which he avoided her gaze when he noticed that it was upon him, caused Mrs. Burton to instinctively turn her head away, out of respect for what she believed to be a childish secret of some very tender order. Glancing at the couple again for only a second, she saw that Toddie, too, seemed rather less matter-of-fact than usual. Finally both boys started out of the doorway, Budge turning and remarking with inflections simply angelic:

“Will be back pretty soon, Aunt Alice.”

Mrs. Burton proceeded to dress; she idly touched her piano, until one lady after another called, and occupied her time. Suddenly, while trying to form a good impression on a very dignified lady of the old school, both boys marched into the parlor from the dining-room. Mrs. Burton motioned them violently away, for Budge’s trousers and Toddie’ apron were as dirty as they well could be. Neither boy saw the visitor, however, for she was hidden by one of the wings which held the folding-doors, so both tramped up to their aunt, while Budge exclaimed:

“Folks don’t go to heaven the second day, anyhow, for we just dug up the bird to see, an’ he was there just the same.”

“And dere wazh lots of little ants dere wiv him,” said Toddie. “Is dat ’cause dey want to got to hebben, too, an’ wantsh somebody wif wings to help ’em up?”

“Budge!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, in chilling tones; “how did all this dirt come on your clothes?”

“Why, you see,” said the boy, edging up confidentially to his aunt, and resting his elbows on her knee as he looked up into her face, “I couldn’t bear to put the dear little birdie in the ground again without sayin’ another little prayer. And I forgot to brush my knees off.”

“Toddie,” said Mrs. Burton, “you couldn’t have knelt down with your stomach and breast. How did you get your nice white apron so dirty?”

Toddie looked at the apron and then at his aunt—looked at a picture or two, and then at the piano—followed the cornice-line with his eye, seemed suddenly to find what he was looking for, and replied:

“Do you fink dat apron’s dyty? Well, I don’t. Tell you watsh de matter wif it—I fink de white’s gropped off.”

“Go into the kitchen!” Mrs. Burton commanded, and both boys departed with heavy pouts where pretty lips should have been. Half an hour later their uncle, who had come home early with the laudable desire of meeting some of his wife’s acquaintances, found his nephew Toddy upon the scaffolding of an unfinished residence half-way between his own residence and the railway 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!”

“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.