"You did!" screamed Toddie.
"I tell you I didn't—you're a naughty, bad boy to tell such lies, Toddie."
"What did you do, Budge?" I asked.
"Why—why—I was—I was turnin' over in bed, an' my hand was out, an' it tumbled against to Toddie—that's what."
By this time I was dressed and in the boys' room. Both my nephews were sitting up in bed, Budge looking as sullen as an old jailbird, and Toddie with tears streaming all over his face.
"Boys," said I, "don't be angry with each other—it isn't right. What do you suppose the Lord thinks, when He sees you so cross to each other?"
"He don't think noffin'," said Budge; "you don't think He can look through a black sky like that, do you?"
"He can look anywhere, Budge, and He feels very unhappy when He sees little brothers angry with each other."
"Well, I feel unhappy, too—I wish there wasn't never no old rain, nor noffin'."
"Then what would plants and flowers do for a drink and where would rivers come from for you to go sailing on?"