Budge, himself, had the face of a rapt saint as he told this story, but my contemplation of his countenance was suddenly arrested by Toddie, who, disapproving of the unexciting nature of his brother’s recital, had strayed into the garden, investigated a hornet’s nest, been stung, and set up a piercing shriek. He ran in to me, and as I hastily picked him up, he sobbed:— “Want to be wocked.[7] Want ‘Toddie one boy day.’” [7] Rocked I rocked him violently, and petted him tenderly, but again he sobbed:— “Want ‘Toddie one boy day.’” “What _does_ the child mean?” I exclaimed. “He wants you to sing to him about ‘Charlie boy one day,’” said Budge. “He always wants mamma to sing that when he’s hurt, an’ then he stops crying.” “I don’t know it,” said I. “Won’t ‘Roll, Jordan,’ do, Toddie?” “_I’ll_ tell you how it goes,” said Budge, and forthwith the youth sang the following song, a line at a time, I following him in words and air:— “Where is my little bastik[8] gone? Said Charley boy one day; I guess some little boy or girl Has taken it away. “An’ kittie, too—where _ish_ she gone? Oh, dear, what I shall do? I wish I could my bastik find, An’ little kittie, too. “I’ll go to mamma’s room an’ look; Perhaps she may be there; For kittie likes to take a nap In mamma’s easy chair. “O mamma, mamma, come an’ look! See what a little heap! Here’s kittie in the bastik here, All cuddled down to sleep.” [8] Basket. Where the applicability of this poem to my nephew’s peculiar trouble appeared, I could not see, but as I finished it, his sobs gave place to a sigh of relief. “Toddie,” said I, “do you love your Uncle Harry?” “Esh, I _do_ love you.” “Then tell me how that ridiculous song comforts you?” “Makes me feel good, an’ all nicey,” replied Toddie. “Wouldn’t you feel just as good if I sang, ‘Plunged in a gulf of dark despair’?” “No, don’t like dokdishpairs; if a dokdishpair done anyfing to me, I’d knock it right down dead.” With this extremely lucid remark, our conversation on this particular subject ended; but I wondered, during a few uneasy moments, whether the temporary mental aberration which had once afflicted Helen’s grandfather and mine was not reappearing in this, his youngest descendant. My wondering was cut short by Budge, who remarked, in a confidential tone:— “Now, Uncle Harry, we’ll have the whistles, I guess.” [Illustration: TODDIE INVESTIGATING A HORNET’S NEST]