fully analyzed tints, yet compelling the admiration of everyone, and recalling its admirers again and again by the unspoken appeal of its own perfection—its unvarying radiance. “Ah—h—h—h—ee—ee—ee—ee—ee—oo —oo—oo—oo!” came from the window over my head. Then came a shout of—“Uncle Harry!” in a voice I recognized as that of Budge. I made no reply: there are moments when the soul is full of utterances unfit to be heard by childish ears. “Uncle Har_ray_!” repeated Budge. Then I heard a window blind open, and Budge exclaiming:— “Uncle Harry, we want you to come and tell us stories.” I turned my eyes upward quickly, and was about to send a savage negative in the same direction, when I saw in the window a face unknown and yet remembered. Could those great, wistful eyes, that angelic mouth, that spiritual expression, belong to my nephew Budge? Yes, it must be certainly that super-celestial nose and those enormous ears never belonged to anyone else. I turned abruptly, and entered the house, and was received at the head of the stairway by two little figures in white, the larger of which remarked:— “We want you to tell us stories—papa always does nights.” “Very well, jump into bed—what kind of stories do you like?” “Oh, ’bout Jonah,” said Budge. ”’Bout Jonah,” echoed Toddie. “Well, Jonah was out in the sun one day, and a gourd-vine grew up all of a sudden, and made it nice and shady for him, and then it all faded as quick as it came.” A dead silence prevailed for a moment, and then Budge indignantly remarked: “That ain’t Jonah a bit—_I_ know ’bout Jonah.” “Oh, you do, do you?” said I. “Then maybe you’ll be so good as to enlighten me?” “Huh?” “If you know about Jonah, tell me the story; I’d really enjoy listening to it.”