"Why not, Budge?"
"'Cos I don't. I don't know a word what you're talking 'bout."
"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 campmeetings and negro cabins when I was a boy; I saw the 22nd Massachusetts march down Broadway, singing the same air during the rush to the front in 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 into action; I have heard it played over the grave of many a dead comrade; the semi-mutinous—th cavalry became peaceful and patriotic again, as their bandmaster 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."