Helens Babies | Page 9

grave of many a dead comrade;
the semi- mutinous--the cavalry became peaceful and patriotic again as
their band-master played the old air after having asked permission to
try HIS hand on them; it is the same that burst forth spontaneously in
our barracks, on that glorious morning when we learned that the war
was over, and it was sung, with words adapted to the occasion, by some
good rebel friends of mine, on our first social meeting after the war. All
these recollections came hurrying into my mind as I sang, and probably
excited me beyond my knowledge, for Budge suddenly remarked:--
"Don't sing that all day, Uncle Harry; you sing so loud, it hurts my
head."
"Beg your pardon, Budge," said I. "Good-night."
"Why, Uncle Harry, are you going? You didn't hear us say our
prayers,--papa always does."
"Oh! Well, go ahead."

"You must say yours first," said Budge; "that's the way papa does."
"Very well," said I, and I repeated St. Chrysostom's prayer, from the
Episcopal service. I had hardly said "Amen," when Budge remarked:--
"My papa don't say any of them things at all; I don't think that's a very
good prayer,"
"Well, you say a good prayer, Budge."
"Allright." Budge shut his eyes, dropped his voice to the most perfect
tone of supplication, while his face seemed fit for a sleeping angel, then
he said:--
"Dear Lord, we thank you for lettin' us have a good time to-day, an' we
hope all the little boys everywhere have had good times too. We pray
you to take care of us an' everybody else to-night, an' don't let 'em have
any trouble. Oh, yes, an' Uncle Harry's got some candy in his trunk, cos
he said so in the carriage,--we thank you for lettin' Uncle Harry come to
see us, an' we hope he's got LOTS of candy--lots an' piles. An' we pray
you to take good care of all the poor little boys and girls that haven't
got any papas an' mammas an' Uncle Harrys an' candy an' beds to sleep
in. An' take us all to Heaven when we die, for Christ's sake. Amen.
Now give us the candy, Uncle Harry."
"Hush, Budge; don't Toddie say any prayers?"
"Oh yes; go on, Tod."
Toddie closed his eyes, wriggled, twisted, breathed hard and quick,
acting generally as if prayers were principally a matter of physical
exertion. At last he began:--
"Dee Lord, not make me sho bad, an' besh mamma, an' papa, an'
Budgie, and doppity, [Footnote: Grandmother.] an' both boggies,
[Footnote: Grandfathers.] an' all good people in dish house, and
everybody else, an' my dolly. A--a--amen!"

"Now give us the candy," said Budge, with the usual echo from Toddie.
I hastily extracted the candy from my trunk, gave some to each boy, the
recipients fairly shrieking with delight, and once more said good-night.
"Oh, you didn't give us any pennies," said Budge. "Papa gives us some
to put in our banks, every nights."
"Well, I haven't got any now--wait until to-morrow."
"Then we want drinks."
"I'll let Maggie bring you drink."
"Want my dolly," murmured Toddie.
I found the knotted towels, took the dirty things up gingerly and threw
them upon the bed.
"Now want to shee wheels go wound," said Toddie.
I hurried out of the room and slammed the door. I looked at my
watch--it was half-past eight; I had spent an hour and a half with those
dreadful children. They WERE funny to be sure--I found myself
laughing in spite of my indignation. Still, if they were to monopolize
my time as they had already done, when was I to do my reading?
Taking Fiske's "Cosmic Philosophy" from my trunk I descended to the
back parlor, lit a cigar and a student-lamp, and began to read. I had not
fairly commenced when I heard a patter of small feet, and saw my elder
nephew before me. There was sorrowful protestation in every line of
his countenance, as he exclaimed:--
"You didn't say 'Good-by' nor 'God bless you' nor anything."
"Oh--good-by."
"Good-by."
"God bless you."

"God bless you."
Budge seemed waiting for something else. At last he said:--
"Papa says, 'God bless everybody.'"
"Well, God bless everybody."
"God bless everybody," responded Budge, and turned silently and went
up-stairs.
"Bless your tormenting honest little heart," I said to myself; "if men
trusted God as you do your papa, how little business there'd be for
preachers to do."
The night was a perfect one. The pure fresh air, the perfume of the
flowers, the music of the insect choir in the trees and shrubbery--the
very season itself seemed to forbid my reading philosophy, so I laid
Fiske aside, delighted myself with a few rare bits from Paul Hayne's
new volume of poems, read a few chapters of "One Summer,"