I peered cautiously—then I entered the room hastily. I didn’t say anything for a moment, for it was impossible to do justice impromptu, to the subject. Toddie had a progressive mind—if pictorial ornamentation was good for old books, why should not similar ornamentation be extended to objects more likely to be seen? Such may not have been Toddie’s line of thought, but his recent operations warranted such a supposition. He had cut out a number of pictures, and pasted them upon the wall of my room—my sister’s darling room, with its walls tinted exquisitely in pink. As a member of a hanging committee, Toddie would hardly have satisfied taller people, but he had arranged the pictures quite regularly, at about the height of his own eyes, had favored no one artist more than another, and had hung indiscriminately figure pieces, landscapes, and genre pictures. The temporary break of wall-line occasioned by the door communicating with his own room he had overcome by closing the door and carrying a line of pictures across its lower panels. Occasionally a picture fell off the wall, but the mucilage remained faithful, and glistened with its fervor of devotion. And yet so untouched was I by this artistic display, that when I found strength to shout, “Toddie,” it was in a tone which caused this industrious amateur decorator to start violently, and drop his mucilage bottle, open end first, upon the carpet. “What will mamma say?” I asked. Toddie gazed, first blankly, and then inquiringly, into my face; finding no answer or sympathy there he burst into tears, and replied:— “I dunno.” The ringing of the lunch bell changed Toddie from a tearful cherub into a very practical, business-like boy, and shouting, “Come on, Budge!” he hurried downstairs, while I tormented myself with wonder as to how I could best and most quickly undo the mischief Toddie had done. I will concede to my nephews the credit of keeping reasonably quiet during meals; their tongues, doubtless, longed to be active in both the principal capacities of those useful members, but they had no doubt as to how to choose between silence and hunger. The result was a reasonably comfortable half-hour. Just as I began to cut a melon, Budge broke the silence by exclaiming:— “O Uncle Harry, we haven’t been out to see the goat to-day!” “Budge,” I replied, “I’ll carry you out there under an umbrella after lunch, and you may play with that goat all the afternoon, if you like.” “Oh, won’t that be nice?” exclaimed Budge. “The poor goat! he’ll think I don’t love him a bit, ’cause I haven’t been to see him to-day. Does goats go to heaven when they die, Uncle Harry?” “Guess not—they’d make trouble in the golden streets I’m afraid.” “Oh, dear! then Phillie can’t see my goat. I’m so awful sorry,” said Budge. “_I_ can see your goat, Budgie,” suggested Toddie. “Huh!” said Budge, very contemptuously. “_You_ ain’t dead.”