Then there was his own room, where we could examine the wonderful drawers of his great bureau, and play with the “picknickles” and “bucknickles.” I believe our father invented these words. They were--well, all kinds of pleasant little things,--amber mouthpieces, and buckles and bits of enamel, and a wonderful Turkish pipe, and seals and wax, and some large pins two inches long which were great treasures. On his writing-table were many clean pens in boxes, which you could lay out in patterns; and a sand-box--very delightful! We were never tired of pouring the fine black sand into our hands, where it felt so cool and smooth, and then back again into the box with its holes arranged star-fashion. And to see him shake sand over his paper when he wrote a letter, and then pour it back in a smooth stream, while the written lines sparkled and seemed to stand up from the page! Ah, blotting-paper is no doubt very convenient, but I should like to have a sand-box, nevertheless! I cannot remember that our father was ever out of patience when we pulled his things about. He had many delightful stories,--one of “Jacky Nory,” which had no end, and went on and on, through many a walk and garden prowl. Often, too, he would tell us of his own pranks when he was a little boy,--how they used to tease an old Portuguese sailor with a wooden leg, and how the old man would get very angry, and cry out, “Calabash me rompe you!” meaning, “I’ll break your head!” How when he was a student in college, and ought to have known better, he led the president’s old horse upstairs and left him in an upper room of one of the college buildings, where the poor beast astonished the passers-by by putting his head out of the windows and neighing. And then our father would shake his head and say he was a very naughty boy, and Harry must never do such things. (But Harry did!) He loved to play and romp with us. Sometimes he would put on his great fur-coat, and come into the dining-room at dancing-time, on all-fours, growling horribly, and pursue us into corners, we shrieking with delighted terror. Or he would sing for us, sending us into fits of laughter, for he had absolutely no ear for music. There was one tune which he was quite sure he sang correctly, but no one could recognize it. At last he said, “Oh--Su-_san_na!” and then we all knew what the tune was. “Hail to the Chief!” was his favorite song, and he sang it with great spirit and fervor, though the air was strictly original, and very peculiar. When he was tired of romping or carrying us on his shoulder, he would say, “No; no more! I have a bone in my leg!” which excuse was accepted by us little ones in perfect good faith, as we thought it some mysterious but painful malady.