“Aunt Alice,” asked Budge, on the way back to his uncle’s residence, “now there’ somebody else at our house to have a birthday, isn’t there? When will baby sister’ birthday come—how many days?”
“About three hundred and sixty,” said Mrs. Burton.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Budge. “And how long ’fore Christmas’ll come again?”
“Nearly two hundred days.”
“Well, I think I will die if somebody don’t have a birthday pretty soon, so I can give ’em presents.”
“Why, you dear, generous little fellow,” said Mrs. Burton, stooping to kiss him, “my own birthday will come to-morrow.”
“Oh—h—h—h!” exclaimed Budge. “Say Toddie——” The remainder of the conversation was conducted in whispers and with countenances of extreme importance. The boys even took a different road for home, Budge explaining to his aunt that they had a big secret to talk about.
Mrs. Burton stopped en route to ask a neighborly question or two, and arrived at home somewhat later than her nephews. She saw a horse and wagon at the door, and rightly imagined that they belonged to the grocer. But what a certain white mass on the ground under the horse could consist of Mrs. Burton was at a loss to conjecture, and she quickened her pace only to find the white substance aforesaid resolve itself into the neatly clothed body of her nephew, Toddie, who was lying on his back in the dirt, and contemplating the noble animal’s chest with serene curiosity.
There are moments in life when dignity unbends in spite of itself, and grace of deportment becomes a thing to be loathed. Such a moment Mrs. Burton endured, as, dropping her parasol, she cautiously but firmly seized Toddie and snatched him from his dangerous position.
“Go into the house, this instant, you dirty boy!” said she, with an imperious stamp of her foot.