“Well, I’ll tell you, Tod, I guess that’s one of the things that the Bible don’t tell folks about heaven. You know papa says that there’s lots of things the Lord don’t let people know ’bout heaven; ’cause it’ none of their business, an’ I guess that’s one of ’em.”
“Wish dere’d be some more Bibles, den! I wantsh to know lotsh more fingsh.”
“Well, anyhow,” said Budge, “we’re goin’ home to-day, an’ that fills me so full I ain’t got room for the littlest speck of heaven. Wonder who’s goin’ to take us, an’ when we’re a-goin’, an’ ev’rything? Let’s go ask Uncle Harry.”
“Come on!” exclaimed Toddie, “Izh been finkin’ awful hard ’bout how to get into his bedroom wifout bein’ scolded, an’ now I know. Hurry up ’fore we forgets.”
Both boys hurried to the family chamber, and assaulted the door with fists and feet.
“’The overture of the angels,’” quoted Mr. Burton, “’and positively their last appearance.’”
“Don’t speak of it,” said Mrs. Burton. “I’ve been crying about it in my dreams, I believe, and I’m in a condition to begin again.”
“I’ve a great mind to make them cry,” said the man of the house savagely. “No scrubbing will take the mark of small shoe-toes out of painted wood.”
“Let them kick to their dear little hearts’ content! Not a mark of that kind shall ever be insulted by a scrubbing brush. I feel as if I’d like to go about the house and kiss everything they’ve touched.”
“You might kiss the sounding board of my violin, then,” said Mr. Burton, “where there’s an ineffaceable scratch from a nail in Toddie’s shoe, placed there on the morning of your birthday anniversary. There’s a nice generous blot on the wood of the writing-desk, too, where Toddie upset a bottle of violet ink. Would that your kisses could efface the stain that the cabinet-maker says is indelible. Then there are some dingy streaks on the wall beside their bed, where they’ve lain crosswise and rubbed their heads against the wall.”