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.”