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!” “Let’s have some fun, Budge—don’t you want to frolic?” “No; I don’t think frolics is nice.” “Don’t you want some candy, Budge?” “No—you ain’t _got_ no candy, I bleeve.” “Well, you sha’n’t have any, if you don’t stop being so cross.” The only reply to this was a mighty and audible rustling of the bedding in the boys’ room, followed by a sound strongly resembling that caused by a slap; then came a prolonged wail, resembling that of an ungreased wagon wheel. “What’s the matter, Toddie?” “Budge s’apped me—ah—h—h—h!” “What made you slap your brother, Budge?” “I _didn’t_.” “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’.”