When their mother and I returned from a row, we would often see the children waiting for us, running like sand-spiders along the beach.  They always liked to swim in company with a grown-up of buoyant temperament and inventive mind, and the float offered limitless opportunities for enjoyment while bathing.  All dutiful parents know the game of “stage-coach”; each child is given a name, such as the whip, the nigh leader, the off wheeler, the old lady passenger, and, under penalty of paying a forfeit, must get up and turn round when the grown-up, who is improvising a thrilling story, mentions that particular object; and when the word “stage-coach” is mentioned, everybody has to get up and turn round.  Well, we used to play stage-coach on the float while in swimming, and instead of tamely getting up and turning round, the child whose turn it was had to plunge overboard.  When I mentioned “stage-coach,” the water fairly foamed with vigorously kicking little legs; and then there was always a moment of interest while I counted, so as to be sure that the number of heads that came up corresponded with the number of children who had gone down.

No man or woman will ever forget the time when some child lies sick of a disease that threatens its life.  Moreover, much less serious sickness is unpleasant enough at the time.  Looking back, however, there are elements of comedy in certain of the less serious cases.  I well remember one such instance which occurred when we were living in Washington, in a small house, with barely enough room for everybody when all the chinks were filled.  Measles descended on the household.  In the effort to keep the children that were well and those that were sick apart, their mother and I had to camp out in improvised fashion.  When the eldest small boy was getting well, and had recovered his spirits, I slept on a sofa beside his bed—­the sofa being so short that my feet projected over anyhow.  One afternoon the small boy was given a toy organ by a sympathetic friend.  Next morning early I was waked to find the small boy very vivacious and requesting a story.  Having drowsily told the story, I said, “Now, father’s told you a story, so you amuse yourself and let father go to sleep”; to which the small boy responded most virtuously, “Yes, father will go to sleep and I’ll play the organ,” which he did, at a distance of two feet from my head.  Later his sister, who had just come down with the measles, was put into the same room.  The small boy was convalescing, and was engaged in playing on the floor with some tin ships, together with two or three pasteboard monitors and rams of my own manufacture.  He was giving a vivid rendering of Farragut at Mobile Bay, from memories of how I had told the story.  My pasteboard rams and monitors were fascinating—­if a naval architect may be allowed to praise his own work—­and as property they were equally divided between the little girl and the small boy.  The little girl looked on with alert suspicion from the bed, for she was not yet convalescent enough to be allowed down on the floor.  The small boy was busily reciting the phases of the fight, which now approached its climax, and the little girl evidently suspected that her monitor was destined to play the part of victim.