“Uncle Harry!”

“What!”

“Uncle Harry, what kind of wood are you going to make the whistle out of?”

“I won’t make any at all—­I’ll cut a big stick and give you a sound whipping with it, for not keeping quiet, as I told you to."’

“Why, Uncle Harry, papa don’t whip us with sticks—­he spanks us.”

Heavens!  Papa! papa! papa!  Was I never to have done with this eternal quotation of “papa”?  I was horrified to find myself gradually conceiving a dire hatred of my excellent brother-in-law.  One thing was certain, at any rate:  sleep was no longer possible; so I hastily dressed, and went into the garden.  Among the beauty and the fragrance of the flowers, and in the delicious morning air, I succeeded in regaining my temper, and was delighted, on answering the breakfast-bell, two hours later, to have Budge accost me with:—­

“Why, Uncle Harry, where was you?  We looked all over the house for you, and couldn’t find a speck of you.”

The breakfast was an excellent one.  I afterward learned that Helen, dear old girl, had herself prepared a bill of fare for every meal I should take in the house.  As the table talk of myself and nephews was not such as could do harm by being repeated, I requested Maggie, the servant, to wait upon the children, and I accompanied my request with a small treasury note.  Relieved, thus, of all responsibility for the dreadful appetites of my nephews, I did full justice to the repast, and even regarded with some interest and amusement the industry of Budge and Toddie with their tiny forks and spoons.  They ate rapidly for a while, but soon their appetites weakened and their tongues were unloosed.

“Ocken Hawwy,” remarked Toddie, “daysh an awfoo funny chunt up ’tairs—­awfoo big chunt.  I show it you after brepspup.”

“Toddie’s a silly little boy,” said Budge; “he always says brepspup for brekbux.” [Footnote:  Breakfast.]

“Oh!  What does he mean by chunt, Budge?”

“I guess he means trunk,” replied my oldest nephew.

Recollections of my childish delight in rummaging an old trunk—­it seems a century ago that I did it—­caused me to smile sympathetically at Toddie, to his apparent great delight.  How delightful it is to strike a sympathetic chord in child-nature, thought I; how quickly the infant eye comprehends the look which precedes the verbal expression of an idea!  Dear Toddie! for years we might sit at one table, careless of each other’s words, but the casual mention of one of thy delights has suddenly brought our souls into that sweetest of all human communions—­that one which doubtless bound the Master himself to that apostle who was otherwise apparently the weakest among the chosen twelve.  “An awfoo funny chunt” seemed to annihilate suddenly all differences of age, condition and experience between the wee boy and myself, and—­