"Oh, here it is right in front of us," cried Budge, "and ain't there lots of people? An' two horses to pull the deader—some deaders has only one."
My curiosity was too much for my weariness; I went to the front window, and, peering through, saw—a funeral procession! In a second I was on the piazza, with my hands on the children's collars; a second later two small boys were on the floor of the hall, the front door was closed, and two determined hands covered two threatening little mouths.
When the procession had fairly passed the house, I released the boys and heard two prolonged howls for my pains. Then I asked Budge if he wasn't ashamed to talk that way when a funeral was passing.
"'Twasn't a funeral," said he, "'Twas only a deader, an' deaders can't hear noffin'."
"But the people in the carriages could," said I.
"Well," said he, "they were so glad that the other part of the deader had gone to heaven that they didn't care what I said. Everbody's glad when the other part of deaders go to heaven. Papa told me he was glad dear little Phillie was in heaven, an' I was, but I do want to see him again awful."
"Wantsh to shee Phillie aden awfoo," said Toddie, as I kissed Budge and hurried off to the library, unfit just then to administer further instruction or reproof. Of one thing I was very certain—I wished the rain would cease falling, so the children could go out of doors, and I could get a little rest, and freedom from responsibility. But the skies showed no sign of being emptied, the boys were snarling on the stairway, and I was losing my temper quite rapidly.
Suddenly I bethought me of one of the delights of my own childish days—the making of scrap-books. One of Tom's library drawers held a great many Lady's Journals. Of course Helen meant to have them bound, but I could easily re-purchase the numbers for her; they would cost two or three dollars, but peace was cheap at that price. On a high shelf in the play-room I had seen some supplementary volumes of "Mercantile Agency" reports, which would in time reach the rag-bag; there was a bottle of mucilage in the library desk, and the children owned an old pair of scissors. Within five minutes I had located two happy children on the bath-room floor, taught them to cut out pictures (which operation I quickly found they understood as well as I did) and to paste them into the extemporized scrap-book. Then I left them, recalling something from Newman Hall's address on the "Dignity of Labor." Why hadn't I thought before of showing my nephews some way of occupying their minds and hands? Who could blame the helpless little things for following every prompting of their unguided minds? Had I not a hundred times been told, when sent to the woodpile or the weediest part of the garden in my youthful days, that
"Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do?"