But no man in my condition of mind could be easily depressed by bad weather. I would rather have been able to drive about under a clear sky, or lounge under the trees, or walk to the post-office in the afternoon by the road which passed directly in front of Mrs. Clarkson's boarding-house; but man should not live for himself alone. In the room next mine, were slumbering two wee people to whom I owed a great deal, and who would mourn bitterly when they saw the condition of the skies and ground—I would devote myself to the task of making them so happy that they would forget the absence of sunshine out of doors—I would sit by their bedside and have a story ready for them the moment they awoke, and put them in such a good humor that they could laugh, with me, at cloud and rain.
I began at once to construct a story for their especial benefit; the scene was to be a country residence on a rainy day, and the actors two little boys who should become uproariously jolly in spite of the weather. Like most people not used to story-making, my progress was not very rapid; in fact, I had got no farther than the plot indicated above when an angry snarl came from the children's room.
"What's the matter, Budge?" I shouted, dressing myself as rapidly as possible.
"Ow—oo—ya—ng—um—boo—gaa!" was the somewhat complicated response.
"What did you say, Budge?"
"Didn't say noffin'."
"Oh—that's what I thought."
"Didn't thought."
"Budge,—Budge,—be good."
"Don't want to be good—ya—A—A!"