Mr. Burton found his wife brilliantly conversational, yet averse to talking about her nephews. The exercise which they had been compelled to take in their emulation of the architects of the incomplete building on the plain of Shinar gave them excellent appetites and silenced tongues; but after his capacity had been tested to the uttermost Budge said:
“It’s time for Tod to do his punishment now, Aunt Alice. Don’t you know?”
Mrs. Burton winked at her husband, and nodded approvingly to Budge.
“Come, Tod,” said Budge, “you must tell your awful sad story now, an’ feel bad.”
“Guesh I’ll tell ’bout Peter Gray,” said Toddie; “thatsh awful sad.”
“Who was Peter Gray?” asked Mrs. Burton.
“He’s a dzentleman dat a dyty little boy in the nexsht street to us sings ’bout,” said Toddie, “only I don’t sing ’bout him—I only tellsh it. It’s dzust as sad that-a-way.”
“Go on,” said Budge.
“Once was a man,” said Toddie, with great solemnity, “an’ his name was Peter Gray. An’ he loved a lady. An’ he says to her papa, ‘I wantsh to marry your little gyle.’ An’ what you fink dat papa said? He said, ‘No!’” (this with great emphasis). “That izhn’t as hard as he said it, eiver, but it’s azh hard as I can say it. It’s puffikly dzedful when Jimmy sings it. An’ Peter Gray felt awful bad den, an’ he went out Wesht, to buy de shkinzh dat comes off of animals an’ fings, dough how dat made him feel nicer Jimmy don’t sing ’bout. An’ bad Injuns caught him an’ pulled his hair off, djust like ladies pull deirsh off sometimezh. An’ when dat lady heard ’bout it, it made her feel so bad dat she went to bed an’ died. Datsh all. Uncle Harry, ain’t you got to be punished for somefin’, so you can tell ush a story?”
“It’s time little boys were in bed now,” said Mrs. Burton, arising and taking Toddie in her arms.