"Oh, no, Tod," remonstrated Budge; "Joseph's coat was just as b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y." 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 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 b.l.o.o.d.y."

"All bluggy," echoed Toddie, 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, an' 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, [Footnote: railway cars] 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 Cla.s.sical Dictionary, either. What sort of a man was he?"

"Why, once there was a man, an' his name was Ferus--Offerus, 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 n.o.body. An' the people told him the Lord was the biggest king in the world, an' he wasn't afraid of n.o.body or nothing. An' he asked 'em where he could find the Lord, and they said he was way up in heaven so n.o.body 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, and 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, and 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 out 'Ferus!' An' he looked out the window, but he couldn't see n.o.body, 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, 'Hullo, 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,' an' 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 CHRISTofferus, 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. [Footnote: Rocked.] 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 mamma 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 [Footnote: Basket.] gone?"

Said Charley, one boy day; "I guess some little boy or girl Has taken it away.

"An' kittie, too--where ISH she gone?

Oh dear, what shall I 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:--