“Shing ’bout ‘Glory, glory, hallelulyah,’” suggested Toddie, and I meekly obeyed.  The old air has a wonderful influence over me.  I heard it in western camp-meetings and negro-cabins when I was a boy; I saw the 22d Massachusetts march down Broadway, singing the same air during the rush to the front during the early days of the war; I have heard it sung by warrior tongues in nearly every Southern State; I heard it roared by three hundred good old Hunker Democrats as they escorted New York’s first colored regiment to their place of embarkation; my old brigade sang it softly, but with a swing that was terrible in its earnestness, as they lay behind their stacks of arms just before going to action; I have heard it played over the grave of many a dead comrade; the semi-mutinous—­the cavalry became peaceful and patriotic again as their band-master played the old air after having asked permission to try his hand on them; it is the same that burst forth spontaneously in our barracks, on that glorious morning when we learned that the war was over, and it was sung, with words adapted to the occasion, by some good rebel friends of mine, on our first social meeting after the war.  All these recollections came hurrying into my mind as I sang, and probably excited me beyond my knowledge, for Budge suddenly remarked:—­

“Don’t sing that all day, Uncle Harry; you sing so loud, it hurts my head.”

“Beg your pardon, Budge,” said I.  “Good-night.”

“Why, Uncle Harry, are you going?  You didn’t hear us say our prayers,—­papa always does.”

“Oh!  Well, go ahead.”

“You must say yours first,” said Budge; “that’s the way papa does.”

“Very well,” said I, and I repeated St. Chrysostom’s prayer, from the Episcopal service.  I had hardly said “Amen,” when Budge remarked:—­

“My papa don’t say any of them things at all; I don’t think that’s a very good prayer,”

“Well, you say a good prayer, Budge.”

“Allright.”  Budge shut his eyes, dropped his voice to the most perfect tone of supplication, while his face seemed fit for a sleeping angel, then he said:—­

“Dear Lord, we thank you for lettin’ us have a good time to-day, an’ we hope all the little boys everywhere have had good times too.  We pray you to take care of us an’ everybody else to-night, an’ don’t let ’em have any trouble.  Oh, yes, an’ Uncle Harry’s got some candy in his trunk, cos he said so in the carriage,—­we thank you for lettin’ Uncle Harry come to see us, an’ we hope he’s got lots of candy—­lots an’ piles.  An’ we pray you to take good care of all the poor little boys and girls that haven’t got any papas an’ mammas an’ Uncle Harrys an’ candy an’ beds to sleep in.  An’ take us all to Heaven when we die, for Christ’s sake.  Amen.  Now give us the candy, Uncle Harry.”

“Hush, Budge; don’t Toddie say any prayers?”

“Oh yes; go on, Tod.”

Toddie closed his eyes, wriggled, twisted, breathed hard and quick, acting generally as if prayers were principally a matter of physical exertion.  At last he began:—­