I abruptly ordered Budge to his seat, unmoved even by Toddie's remark, that—
"Dey ish turtles, but dey can't kwawl awound like udder turtles."
After breakfast I devoted a great deal of fussy attention to myself. Never did my own wardrobe seem so meager and ill-assorted; never did I cut myself so many times while shaving; never did I use such unsatisfactory shoe-polish. I finally gave up in despair my effort to appear genteel, and devoted myself to the bouquet. I cut almost flowers enough to dress a church, and then remorselessly excluded every one which was in the least particular imperfect. In making the bouquet I enjoyed the benefit of my nephews' assistance and counsel, and took enforced part in conversation which flowers suggested.
"Ocken Hawwy," said Toddie, "ish heaven all like this, wif pretty f'owers? 'Cos I don't see what ze angels ever turns out for if 'tis."
"Uncle Harry," said Budge, "when the leaves all go up and down and wriggle around so, are they talking to the wind?"
"I—I guess so, old fellow."
"Who are you making that bouquet for, Uncle Harry?" asked Budge.
"For a lady—for Miss Mayton—that lady that saw us all muddy yesterday afternoon," said I.
"Oh, I like her," said Budge. "She looks so nice and pretty—just like a cake—just as if she was good to eat—oh, I just love her, don't you?"
"Well, I respect her very highly, Budge."