“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?” Never again would I blame the children for being mischievous when their minds were neglected. I spent a peaceful, pleasant hour over my novel, when I felt that a fresh cigar would be acceptable. Going upstairs in search of one, I found that Budge had filled the bath-tub with water, and was sailing boats, that is, hair-brushes. Even this seemed too mild an offense to call for a rebuke, so I passed on without disturbing him, and went to my own room. I heard Toddie’s voice, and having heard from my sister that Toddie’s conversations with himself were worth listening to, I paused outside the door. I heard Toddie softly murmur:— “Zere, pitty yady, ’tay _zere_. Now, ’ittle boy, I put you wif your mudder, ’tause mudders like zere ’ittle boys wif zem. An’ you s’all have ’ittle sister tudder side of you,—zere. Now, ’ittle boy’s an’ ’ittle girl’s mudder, don’t you feel happy?—isn’t I awfoo good to give you your ’ittle tsilderns? You ought to say, ‘Fank you, Toddie,—you’s a nice, fweet ’ittle djentleman.’”