“Go in, Toddie—­this instant!”

The sound of my voice startled the young man so severely that he lost his footing, fell, and began to roll toward the edge and to scream, both operations being performed with great rapidity.  I ran to catch him as he fell, but the outer edge of the water-trough was high enough to arrest his progress, though it had no effect in reducing the volume of his howls.

“Toddie,” I shouted, “lie perfectly still until uncle can get to you.  Do you hear?”

“Ess, but don’t want to lie ’till,” came in reply from the roof.  “‘Tan’t shee noffin’ but sky an’ rain.”

“Lie still,” I reiterated, “or I’ll whip you dreadfully.”  Then I dashed up-stairs, removed my shoes, climbed out and rescued Toddie, shook him soundly, and then shook myself.

“I wazh only djust pyayin’ mamma, an’ walkin’ in ze yain wif an umbayalla,” Toddie explained.

I threw him upon his bed and departed.  It was plain that neither logic, threats, nor the presence of danger could keep this dreadful child from doing whatever he chose; what other means of restraint could be employed?  Although not as religious a man as my good mother could wish, I really wondered whether prayer, as a last resort, might not be effective.  For his good, and my own peace, I would cheerfully have read through the whole prayer-book.  I could hardly have done it just then, though, for Mike solicited an audience at the back door, and reported that Budge had given the carriage-sponge to the goat, put handfuls of oats into the pump-cylinder, pulled hairs out of the black mare’s tail, and with a sharp nail drawn pictures on the enamel of the carriage-body.  Budge made no denial, but looked very much aggrieved, and remarked that he couldn’t never be happy without somebody having to go get bothered; and he wished there wasn’t nobody in the world but organ-grinders and candy-store men.  He followed me into the house, flung himself into a chair, put on a look which I imagine Byron wore before he was old enough to be malicious, and exclaimed:—­

“I don’t see what little boys was made for anyhow; if ev’rybody gets cross with them, an’ don’t let ’em do what they want to.  I’ll bet when I get to heaven, the Lord won’t be as ugly to me as Mike is,—­an’ some other folks, too.  I wish I could die and be buried right away,—­me an’ the goat—­an’ go to heaven, where we wouldn’t be scolded.”

Poor little fellow!  First I laughed inwardly at his idea of heaven, and then I wondered whether my own was very different from it, or any more creditable.  I had no time to spend even in pious reflection, however.  Budge was quite wet, his shoes were soaking, and he already had an attack of catarrh; so I took him to his room and re-dressed him, wondering all the while how much similar duties my own father had had to do by me had shortened his life, and how, with such a son as I was, he lived as long as he did.  The idea that I was in some slight degree atoning for my