But no man in my condition of mind could be easily depressed by bad weather.  I would rather have been able to drive about under a clear sky, or lounge under the trees, or walk to the post-office in the afternoon by the road which passed directly in front of Mrs. Clarkson’s boarding-house; but man should not live for himself alone.  In the room next mine were slumbering two wee people to whom I owed a great deal, who would mourn bitterly when they saw the condition of the skies and ground—­I would devote myself to the task of making them so happy that they would forget the absence of sunshine out of doors—­I would sit by their bedside and have a story ready for them the moment they awoke, and put them in such a good humor that they could laugh, with me, at cloud and rain.

I began at once to construct a story for their especial benefit; the scene was to be a country residence on a rainy day, and the actors two little boys who should become uproariously jolly in spite of the weather.  Like most people not used to story-making, my progress was not very rapid; in fact, I had got no farther than the plot indicated above when an angry snarl came from the children’s room.

“What’s the matter, Budge?” I shouted, dressing myself as rapidly as possible.

“Ow—­oo—­ya—­ng—­um—­boc—­gaa,” was the somewhat complicated response.

“What did you say, Budge?”

“Didn’t say noffin’.”

“Oh—­that’s what I thought.”

“Didn’t thought.”

“Budge,—­Budge,—­be good.”

“Don’t want to be good—­ya—­A—­A.”

“Let’s have some fun, Budge—­don’t you want to frolic?”

“No; I don’t think frolic is nice.”

“Don’t you want some candy, Budge?”

“No—­you ain’t got no candy, I bleeve.”

“Well, you sha’n’t have any if you don’t stop being so cross.”

The only reply to this was a mighty and audible rustling of the bedding in the boys’ room, followed by a sound strongly resembling that caused by a slap; then came a prolonged wail, resembling that of an ungreased wagon-wheel.

“What’s the matter, Toddie?”

“Budge s’apped me—­ah—­h—­h—­h!”

“What made you slap your brother, Budge?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” screamed Toddie.

“I tell you I didn’t—­you’re a naughty, bad boy to tell such lies, Toddie.”

“What did you do, Budge?” I asked.

“Why—­why—­I was—­I was turnin’ over in bed, an’ my hand was out, and it tumbled against to Toddie—­that’s what.”

By this time I was dressed and in the boy’s room.  Both my nephews were sitting up in bed, Budge looking as sullen as an old jail-bird, and Toddie with tears streaming all over his face.

“Boys,” said I, “don’t be angry with each other—­it isn’t right.  What do you suppose the Lord thinks when he sees you so cross to each other?”