“No—of course not. Don’t be silly, Budge.” “Well, I think about him a good deal, an’ I don’t think it’s silly a bit. I hope he’ll go to heaven when he dies. Do angels have goat-carriages, Uncle Harry?” “No, old fellow—they can go about without carriages.” “When I goesh to hebben,” said Toddie, rising in bed, “Izhe goin’ to have lots of goat cawidjes an’ Izhe goin’ to tate all ze andjels a-widen.” With many other bits of prophesy and celestial description I was regaled as I completed my toilet, and I hurried out of doors for an opportunity to think without disturbance. Strolling past the hen-yard, I saw a meditative turtle, and, picking him up and shouting to my nephews, I held the reptile up for their inspection. Their window blinds flew open and a unanimous though not exactly harmonious “Oh!” greeted my prize.” “Where did you get it, Uncle Harry?” asked Budge. “Down by the hen-coop.” Budge’s eyes opened wide; he seemed to devote a moment to profound thought, and then he exclaimed:— “Why, I don’t see how the hens _could_ lay such a big thing—just put him in your hat till I come down, will you?” I dropped the turtle into Budge’s wheelbarrow, and made a tour of the flower-borders. The flowers, always full of suggestion to me, seemed suddenly to have new charms and powers; they actually impelled me to try to make rhymes,—me, a steady white-goods salesman! The impulse was too strong to be resisted, though I must admit that the results were pitifully meager:— “As radiant as that matchless rose Which poet-artists fancy; As fair as whitest lily-blows, As modest as the pansy; As pure as dew which hides within Aurora’s sun-kissed chalice; As tender as the primrose sweet— All this, and more, is Alice.” In inflicting this fragment upon the reader I have not the faintest idea that he can discover any merit in it; I quote it only that a subsequent experience of mine may be more intelligible. When I had composed these wretched lines I became conscious that I had neither pencil nor paper wherewith to preserve them. Should I lose them—my first self-constructed poem? Never! This was not the first time in which I had found it necessary to preserve words by memory alone. So I repeated my ridiculous lines over and over again, until the eloquent feeling of which they were the graceless expression inspired me to accompany my recital with gestures. Six—eight—ten—a dozen—twenty times I repeated these lines, each time with additional emotion and gesture, when a thin voice, very near me, remarked:— “Ocken Hawwy, you does djust as if you was swimmin’.” Turning, I beheld my nephew, Toddie—how long he had been behind me I had no idea. He looked earnestly into my eyes, and then remarked:— “Ocken Hawwy, your faysh is wed, djust like a wosy-posy.” “Let’s go right in to breakfast, Toddie,” said I aloud, as I grumbled to myself about the faculty of observation which Tom’s children seemed to have.