"Has he any way of putting an extension on the afternoon?" I asked.
"I don't know what that is," said Budge, "but he puts an India-rubber blanket on the grass, and then we all lie down and make b'lieve we're soldiers asleep. Only sometimes when we wake up, papa stays asleep, an' mamma won't let us wake him. I don't think that's a very nice play."
"Well, I think Bible stories are nicer than anything else, don't you?"
Budge seemed somewhat in doubt. "I think swingin' is nicer," said he—"oh, no;—let's get some jacks—I'll tell you what!—make us whistles, an' we can blow on 'em while we're goin' to get the jacks. Toddie, dear, wouldn't you like jacks an' whistles?"
"Yesh—an' swingin'—an' birch—an' wantsh to go to Hawksnesh Rock," answered Toddie.
"Let's have Bible stories first," said I. "The Lord mightn't like it if you didn't learn anything good to-day."
"Well," said Budge, with the regulation religious-matter-of-duty face, "let's. I guess I like 'bout Joseph best."
"Tell us 'bout Bliaff," suggested Toddie.
"Oh, no, Tod," remonstrated Budge; "Joseph's coat was just as bloody as Goliath's head was." Then Budge turned to me and explained that "all Tod likes Goliath for is 'cause when his head was cut off it was all bloody." And then Toddie—the airy sprite whom his mother described as being irresistibly drawn to whatever was beautiful—Toddie glared upon me, as a butcher's apprentice might stare at a doomed lamb, and remarked:—
"Bliaff's head was all bluggy, an' David's sword was all bluggy—bluggy as everyfing."