Helens Babies | Page 7

the
children, and retired; and then I remembered, to my dismay, that Helen
never had a servant in the dining-room except upon grand occasions,
her idea being that servants retail to their friends the cream of the
private conversation of the family circle. In principle I agreed with her,
but the penalty of the practical application, with these two little
cormorants on my hands, was greater suffering than any I had ever
been called upon to endure for principle's sake; but there was no help
for it. I resignedly rapped on the table, bowed my head, said, "From
what we are about to receive, the Lord make us thankful," and asked
Budge whether he ate bread or biscuit.
"Why, we ain't asked no blessin' yet," said he.

"Yes, I did, Budge," said I. "Didn't you hear me?"
"Do you mean what you said just now?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I don't think that was no blessin' at all. Papa never says that kind
of a blessin'."
"What does papa say, may I ask?" I inquired, with becoming meekness.
"Why, papa says, 'Our Father, we thank thee for this food; mercifully
remember with us all the hungry and needy to-day, for Christ's sake,
Amen.' That's what he says."
"It means the same thing, Budge."
"I don't think it does; and Toddie didn't have no time to say HIS blessin'.
I don't think the Lord'll like it if you do it that way."
"Yes, he will, old boy; he knows what people mean."
"Well, how can he tell what Toddie means if Toddie can't say
anything?"
"Wantsh to shay my blessin'," whined Toddie.
It was enough; my single encounter with Toddie had taught me to
respect the young gentleman's force of character. So again I bowed my
head, and repeated what Budge had reported as "papa's blessin'," Budge
kindly prompting me where my memory failed. The moment I began,
Toddie commenced to jabber rapidly and aloud, and the instant the
"Amen" was pronounced he raised his head and remarked with evident
satisfaction:--
"I shed my blessin' TWO timesh."
And Budge said gravely:--

"NOW I guess we are all right."
The supper was an exquisite one, but the appetites of those dreadful
children effectually prevented my enjoying the repast. I hastily retired,
called the girl, and instructed, her to see that the children had enough to
eat, and were put to bed immediately after; then I lit a cigar and strolled
into the garden. The roses were just in bloom, the air was full of the
perfume of honeysuckles, the rhododendrons had not disappeared,
while I saw promise of the early unfolding of many other pet flowers of
mine. I confess that I took a careful survey of the garden to see how
fine a bouquet I might make for Miss Mayton, and was so abundantly
satisfied with the material before me that I longed to begin the work at
once, but that it would seem too hasty for true gentility. So I paced the
paths, my hands behind my back, and my face well hidden by fragrant
clouds of smoke, and went into wondering and reveries. I wondered if
there was any sense in the language of flowers, of which I had
occasionally seen mention made by silly writers; I wished I had learned
it if it had any meaning; I wondered if Miss Mayton understood it. At
any rate, I fancied I could arrange flowers to the taste of any lady
whose face I had ever seen; and for Alice Mayton I would make
something so superb that her face could not help lighting up when she
beheld it. I imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would brighten, her
cheeks would redden,--not with sentiment, not a bit of it; but with
genuine pleasure,--how her strong lips would part slightly and disclose
sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well in hand. I--I,
a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of white goods--actually
wished I might be divested of all nineteenth-century abilities and
characteristics, and be one of those fairies that only silly girls and crazy
poets think of, and might, unseen, behold the meeting of my flowers
with this highly cultivated specimen of the only sort of flowers our
cities produce. What flower did she most resemble? A lily?--no;
too--not exactly too bold, but too--too, well, I couldn't think of the
word, but clearly it wasn't bold. A rose! Certainly, not like those
glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the shy, delicate, ethereal
tea-roses with their tender suggestions of color. Like this perfect Gloire
de Dijon, perhaps; strong, vigorous, self-asserting, among its more
delicate sisterhood; yet shapely, perfect in outline and development,

exquisite, enchanting in its never fully-analyzed tints, yet compelling
the admiration of every one, and recalling its admirers again and again
by the