Helen\'s Babies

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HELEN'S BABIES

With some account of their ways, innocent, crafty, angelic,
impish, witching and impulsive; also a partial record of their
actions during ten days of their existence

By JOHN HABBERTON

The first cause, so far as it can be determined, of the existence
of this book may be found in the following letter, written by my
only married sister, and received by me, Harry Burton, salesman of
white goods, bachelor, aged twenty-eight, and received just as I
was trying to decide where I should Spend a fortnight's vacation:--

"HILLCREST, June 15, 1875.

"DEAR HARRY:--Remembering that you are always complaining that you
never have a chance to read, and knowing that you won't get it
this summer, if you spend your vacation among people of your own
set, I write to ask you to come up here. I admit that I am not
wholly disinterested in inviting you. The truth is, Tom and I are
invited to spend a fortnight with my old schoolmate, Alice Wayne,
who, you know, is the dearest girl in the world, though you DIDN'T
obey me and marry her before Frank Wayne appeared. Well, we're
dying to go, for Alice and Frank live in splendid style; but as
they haven't included our children in their invitation, and have
no children of their own, we must leave Budge and Toddie at home.
I've no doubt they'll be perfectly safe, for my girl is a jewel,
and devoted to the children, but I would feel a great deal easier
if there was a man in the house. Besides, there's the silver, and
burglars are less likely to break into a house where there's a
savage-looking man. (Never mind about thanking me for the
compliment.) If YOU'LL only come up, my mind will be completely at
rest. The children won't give you the slightest trouble; they're
the best children in the world--everybody says so.

"Tom has plenty of cigars, I know, for the money I should have had
for a new suit went to pay his cigar-man. He has some new claret,
too, that HE goes into ecstasies over, though _I_ can't tell it
from the vilest black ink, except by the color. Our horses are in
splendid condition, and so is the garden--you see I don't forget
your old passion for flowers. And, last and best, there never were
so many handsome girls at Hillcrest as there are among the summer
boarders already here; the girls you already are acquainted with
here will see that you meet all the newer acquisitions.

"Reply by telegraph right away. "Of course you'll say 'Yes.' "In
great haste, your loving

"SISTER HELEN.

P. S. You shall have our own chamber; it catches every breeze, and
commands the finest views. The children's room communicates with
it; so, if anything SHOULD happen to the darlings at night, you'd
be sure to hear them."

"Just the thing!" I ejaculated. Five minutes later I had
telegraphed Helen my acceptance of her invitation, and had
mentally selected books enough to busy me during a dozen
vacations. Without sharing Helen's belief that her boys were the
best ones in the world, I knew them well enough to feel assured
that they would not give me any annoyance. There were two of them,
since Baby Phil died last fall; Budge, the elder, was five years
of age, and had generally, during my flying visits to Helen, worn
a shy, serious, meditative, noble face, with great, pure,
penetrating eyes, that made me almost fear their stare. Tom
declared he was a born philanthropist or prophet, and Helen made
so free with Miss Muloch's lines as to sing:--

"Ah, the day that THOU goest a-wooing,
Budgie, my boy!"

Toddie had seen but three summers, and was a happy little know-
nothing, with a head full of tangled yellow hair, and a very
pretty fancy for finding out sunbeams and dancing in them. I had
long envied Tom his horses, his garden, his house and his
location, and the idea of controlling them for a fortnight was
particularly delightful. Tom's taste in cigars and claret I had
always respected, while the lady inhabitants of Hillcrest were,
according to my memory, much like those of every other suburban
village, the fairest of their sex.

Three days later I made the hour and a half trip between New York
and Hillcrest, and hired a hackman to drive me over to Tom's. Half
a mile from my brother-in-law's residence, our horses shied
violently, and the driver, after talking freely to them, turned to
me and remarked:--

"That was one of the 'Imps.'"

"What was?" I asked.

"That little cuss that scared the hosses. There he is, now,
holdin' up that piece of brushwood. 'Twould be just like his
cheek, now, to ask me to let him ride. Here he comes, runnin'.
Wonder where t'other is?--they most generally travel together. We
call 'em the Imps, about these parts, because they're so uncommon
likely at mischief. Always skeerin' hosses, or chasin' cows, or
frightenin' chickens. Nice enough father an' mother, too--queer,
how young ones do turn out."

As he spoke, the offending youth came panting beside our carriage,
and in a very dirty sailor-suit, and under a broad-brimmed straw
hat, with one stocking about his ankle, and two shoes, averaging
about two buttons each, I recognized my nephew, Budge! About the
same time there emerged from the bushes by the roadside a smaller
boy in a green gingham dress, a ruffle which might once have been
white, dirty stockings, blue slippers worn through at the toes,
and an old-fashioned straw-turban. Thrusting into the dust of the
road a branch from a bush, and shouting, "Here's my grass-cutter!"
he ran toward us enveloped in a "pillar of cloud," which might
have served the purpose of Israel in Egypt. When he paused and the
dust had somewhat subsided, I beheld the unmistakable lineaments
of the child Toddie!

"They're--my nephews," I gasped.

"What!" exclaimed the driver. "By gracious! I forgot you were
going to Colonel Lawrence's! I didn't tell anything but the truth
about 'em, though; they're smart enough, an' good enough, as boys
go; but they'll never die of the complaint that children has in
Sunday-school books."

"Budge," said I, with all the sternness I could command, "do you
know me?"

The searching eyes of the embryo prophet and philanthropist
scanned me for a moment, then their owner replied:--

"Yes; you're Uncle Harry. Did you bring us anything?"

"Bring us anything?" echoed Toddie.

"I wish I could have brought you some big whippings," said I, with
great severity of manner, "for behaving so badly. Get into this
carriage."

"Come on, Tod," shouted Budge, although Toddie's farther ear was
not a yard from Budge's mouth. "Uncle Harry's going to take us
riding!"

"Going to take us riding!" echoed Toddie, with the air of one in a
reverie; both the echo and the reverie I soon learned were
characteristics of Toddie.

As they clambered into the carriage I noticed that each one
carried a very dirty towel, knotted in the center into what is
known as a slip-noose knot, drawn very tight. After some moments
of disgusted contemplation of these rags, without being in the
least able to comprehend their purpose, I asked Budge what those
towels were for.

"They're not towels--they're dollies," promptly answered my
nephew.

"Goodness!" I exclaimed. "I should think your mother could buy you
respectable dolls, and not let you appear in public with those
loathsome rags."

"We don't like buyed dollies," explained Budge. "These dollies is
lovely; mine's name is Mary, an' Toddie's is Marfa."

"Marfa?" I queried.

"Yes; don't you know about

"Marfa and Mary's jus' gone along
To ring dem charmin' bells,

that them Jubilee sings about?"

"Oh, Martha, you mean?"

"Yes, Marfa--that's what I say. Toddie's dolly's got brown eyes,
an' my dolly's got blue eyes."

"I want to shee yours watch," remarked Toddie, snatching at my
chain, and rolling into my lap.

"Oh--oo--ee, so do I," shouted Budge, hastening to occupy one
knee, and IN TRANSITU wiping his shoes on my trousers and the
skirts of my coat. Each imp put an arm about me to steady himself,
as I produced my three-hundred-dollar time-keeper and showed them
the dial.

"I want to see the wheels go round," said Budge.

"Want to shee wheels go wound," echoed Toddie.

"No; I can't open my watch where there's so much dust," I said.

"What for?" inquired Budge.

"Want to shee the wheels go wound," repeated Toddie.

"The dust gets inside the watch and spoils it," I explained.

"Want to shee the wheels go wound," said Toddie, once more.

"I tell you I can't, Toddie," said I, with considerable asperity.
"Dust spoils watches."

The innocent gray eyes looked up wonderingly, the dirty, but
pretty lips parted slightly, and Toddie murmured:--

"Want to shee the wheels go wound."

I abruptly closed my watch and put it into my pocket. Instantly
Toddie's lower lip commenced to turn outward, and continued to do
so until I seriously feared the bony portion of his chin would be
exposed to view. Then his lower jaw dropped, and he cried:--

"Ah--h--h--h--h--h--want--to--shee--the wheels--go wou--OUND."

"Charles" (Charles is his baptismal name),--"Charles," I
exclaimed with some anger, "stop that noise this instant! Do you
hear me?"

"Yes--oo--oo--oo--ahoo--ahoo."

"Then stop it."

"Wants to shee--"

"Toddie, I've got some candy in my trunk, but I won't give you a
bit if you don't stop that infernal noise."

"Well, I wants to shee wheels go wound. Ah--ah--h--h--h--h!"

"Toddie, dear, don't cry so. Here's some ladies coming in a
carriage; you wouldn't let THEM see you crying, would you? You
shall see the wheels go round as soon as we get home."

A carriage containing a couple of ladies was rapidly approaching,
as Toddie again raised his voice.

"Ah--h--h--wants to shee wheels--"

Madly I snatched my watch from my pocket, opened the case, and
exposed the works to view. The other carriage was meeting ours,
and I dropped my head to avoid meeting the glance of the unknown
occupants, for my few moments of contact with my dreadful nephews
had made me feel inexpressibly unneat. Suddenly the carriage with
the ladies stopped. I heard my own name spoken, and raising my
head quickly (encountering Budge's bullet head EN ROUTE to the
serious disarrangement of my hat), I looked into the other
carriage. There, erect, fresh, neat, composed, bright-eyed, fair-
faced, smiling and observant,--she would have been all this, even
if the angel of the resurrection had just sounded his dreadful
trump,--sat Miss Alice Mayton, a lady who, for about a year, I had
been adoring from afar.

"When did YOU arrive, Mr. Burton?" she asked, "and how long have
you been officiating as child's companion? You're certainly a
happy-looking trio--so unconventional. I hate to see children all
dressed up and stiff as little manikins, when they go out to ride.
And you look as if you had been having SUCH a good time with
them."

"I--I assure you, Miss Mayton," said I, "that my experience has
been the exact reverse of a pleasant one. If King Herod were yet
alive I'd volunteer as an executioner, and engage to deliver two
interesting corpses at a moment's notice."

"You dreadful wretch!" exclaimed the lady. "Mother, let me make
you acquainted with Mr. Burton,--Helen Lawrence's brother. How is
your sister, Mr. Burton?"

"I don't know," I replied; "she has gone with her husband on a
fortnight's visit to Captain and Mrs. Wayne, and I've been silly
enough to promise to have an eye to the place while they're away."

"Why, how delightful!" exclaimed Miss Mayton. "SUCH horses! SUCH
flowers! SUCH a cook!"

"And such children," said I, glaring suggestively at the imps, and
rescuing from Toddie a handkerchief which he had extracted from my
pocket, and was waving to the breeze.

"Why, they're the best children in the world. Helen told me so the
first time I met her this season! Children will be children, you
know. We had three little cousins with us last summer, and I'm
sure they made me look years older than I really am."

"How young you must be, then, Miss Mayton!" said I. I suppose I
looked at her as if I meant what I said, for, although she
inclined her head and said, "Oh, thank you," she didn't seem to
turn my compliment off in her usual invulnerable style. Nothing
happening in the course of conversation ever discomposed Alice
Mayton for more than a hundred seconds, however, so she soon
recovered her usual expression and self-command, as her next
remark fully indicated.

"I believe you arranged the floral decorations at the St.
Zephaniah's Fair, last winter, Mr. Burton? 'Twas the most tasteful
display of the season. I don't wish to give any hints, but at Mrs.
Clarkson's, where we're boarding, there's not a flower in the
whole garden. I break the Tenth Commandment dreadfully every time
I pass Colonel Lawrence's garden. Good-by, Mr. Burton."

"Ah, thank you; I shall be delighted. Good-by."

"Of course you'll call," said Miss Mayton, as her carriage
started,--"it's dreadfully stupid here--no men except on Sundays."

I bowed assent. In the contemplation of all the shy possibilities
which my short chat with Miss Mayton had suggested, I had quite
forgotten my dusty clothing and the two living causes thereof.
While in Miss Mayton's presence the imps had preserved perfect
silence, but now their tongues were loosened.

"Uncle Harry," said Budge, "do you know how to make whistles?"

"Ucken Hawwy," murmured Toddie, "does you love dat lady?"

"No, Toddie, of course not."

"Then you's baddy man, an' de Lord won't let you go to heaven if
you don't love peoples."

"Yes, Budge," I answered hastily, "I do know how to make whistles,
and you shall have one."

"Lord don't like mans what don't love peoples," reiterated Toddie.

"All right, Toddie," said I. "I'll see if I can't please the Lord
some way. Driver, whip up, won't you? I'm in a hurry to turn these
youngsters over to the girl, and ask her to drop them into the
bath-tub."

I found Helen had made every possible arrangement for my comfort.
Her room commanded exquisite views of mountain-slope and valley,
and even the fact that the imps' bedroom adjoined mine gave me
comfort, for I thought of the pleasure of contemplating them while
they were asleep, and beyond the power of tormenting their deluded
uncle.

At the supper-table Budge and Toddie appeared cleanly clothed in
their rightful faces. Budge seated himself at the table; Toddie
pushed back his high-chair, climbed into it, and shouted:

"Put my legs under ze tabo."

Rightfully construing this remark as a request to be moved to the
table, I fulfilled his desire. The girl poured tea for me and milk
for the children, and retired; and then I remembered, to my
dismay, that Helen never had a servant in the dining-room except
upon grand occasions, her idea being that servants retail to their
friends the cream of the private conversation of the family
circle. In principle I agreed with her, but the penalty of the
practical application, with these two little cormorants on my
hands, was greater suffering than any I had ever been called upon
to endure for principle's sake; but there was no help for it. I
resignedly rapped on the table, bowed my head, said, "From what we
are about to receive, the Lord make us thankful," and asked Budge
whether he ate bread or biscuit.

"Why, we ain't asked no blessin' yet," said he.

"Yes, I did, Budge," said I. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Do you mean what you said just now?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I don't think that was no blessin' at all. Papa never says
that kind of a blessin'."

"What does papa say, may I ask?" I inquired, with becoming
meekness.

"Why, papa says, 'Our Father, we thank thee for this food;
mercifully remember with us all the hungry and needy to-day, for
Christ's sake, Amen.' That's what he says."

"It means the same thing, Budge."

"_I_ don't think it does; and Toddie didn't have no time to say
HIS blessin'. I don't think the Lord'll like it if you do it that
way."

"Yes, he will, old boy; he knows what people mean."

"Well, how can he tell what Toddie means if Toddie can't say
anything?"

"Wantsh to shay my blessin'," whined Toddie.

It was enough; my single encounter with Toddie had taught me to
respect the young gentleman's force of character. So again I bowed
my head, and repeated what Budge had reported as "papa's
blessin'," Budge kindly prompting me where my memory failed. The
moment I began, Toddie commenced to jabber rapidly and aloud, and
the instant the "Amen" was pronounced he raised his head and
remarked with evident satisfaction:--

"I shed my blessin' TWO timesh."

And Budge said gravely:--

"NOW I guess we are all right."

The supper was an exquisite one, but the appetites of those
dreadful children effectually prevented my enjoying the repast. I
hastily retired, called the girl, and instructed, her to see that
the children had enough to eat, and were put to bed immediately
after; then I lit a cigar and strolled into the garden. The roses
were just in bloom, the air was full of the perfume of
honeysuckles, the rhododendrons had not disappeared, while I saw
promise of the early unfolding of many other pet flowers of mine.
I confess that I took a careful survey of the garden to see how
fine a bouquet I might make for Miss Mayton, and was so abundantly
satisfied with the material before me that I longed to begin the
work at once, but that it would seem too hasty for true gentility.
So I paced the paths, my hands behind my back, and my face well
hidden by fragrant clouds of smoke, and went into wondering and
reveries. I wondered if there was any sense in the language of
flowers, of which I had occasionally seen mention made by silly
writers; I wished I had learned it if it had any meaning; I
wondered if Miss Mayton understood it. At any rate, I fancied I
could arrange flowers to the taste of any lady whose face I had
ever seen; and for Alice Mayton I would make something so superb
that her face could not help lighting up when she beheld it. I
imagined just how her bluish-gray eyes would brighten, her cheeks
would redden,--not with sentiment, not a bit of it; but with
genuine pleasure,--how her strong lips would part slightly and
disclose sweet lines not displayed when she held her features well
in hand. I--I, a clear-headed, driving, successful salesman of
white goods--actually wished I might be divested of all
nineteenth-century abilities and characteristics, and be one of
those fairies that only silly girls and crazy poets think of, and
might, unseen, behold the meeting of my flowers with this highly
cultivated specimen of the only sort of flowers our cities
produce. What flower did she most resemble? A lily?--no; too--not
exactly too bold, but too--too, well, I couldn't think of the
word, but clearly it wasn't bold. A rose! Certainly, not like
those glorious but blazing remontants, nor yet like the shy,
delicate, ethereal tea-roses with their tender suggestions of
color. Like this perfect Gloire de Dijon, perhaps; strong,
vigorous, self-asserting, among its more delicate sisterhood; yet
shapely, perfect in outline and development, exquisite, enchanting
in its never fully-analyzed tints, yet compelling the admiration
of every one, 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 any one 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 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."

"Well," said Budge, "once upon a time the Lord told Jonah to go to
Nineveh and tell the people they was all bad. But Jonah didn't
want to go, so he went on a boat that was going to Joppa. And then
there was a big storm, an' it rained an' blowed and the big waves
went as high as a house. An' the sailors thought there must be
somebody on the boat that the Lord didn't like. An' Jonah said he
guessed HE was the man. So they picked him up and froed him in the
ocean, an' I don't think it was well for 'em to do that after
Jonah told the troof. An' a big whale was comin' along, and he was
awful hungry, cos the little fishes what he likes to eat all went
down to the bottom of the ocean when it began to storm, and whales
can't go to the bottom of the ocean, cos they have to come up to
breeve, an' little fishes don't. An' Jonah found 'twas all dark
inside the whale, and there wasn't any fire there, an' it was all
wet, and he couldn't take off his clothes to dry, cos there wasn't
no place to hang 'em, an' there wasn't no windows to look out of,
nor nothin' to eat, nor nothin' nor nothin' nor nothin.' So he
asked the Lord to let Mm out, an' the Lord was sorry for him, an'
he made the whale go up close to the land, an' Jonah jumped right
out of his mouth, an' WASN'T he glad? An' then he went to Nineveh,
an' done what the Lord told him to, and he ought to have done it
in the first place if he had known what was good for him."

"Done first payshe, know what's dood for him," asserted Toddie, in
support of his brother's assertion. "Tell us 'nudder story."

"Oh, no, sing us a song," suggested Budge.

"Shing us shong," echoed Toddie.

I searched my mind for a song, but the only one which came
promptly was "M'Appari," several bars of which I gave my juvenile
audience, when Budge interrupted me, saying:--

"I don't think that's a very good song."

"Why not, Budge?"

"Cos I don't. I don't know a word what you're talking 'bout."

"Shing 'bout 'Glory, glory, hallelulyah,'" suggested Toddie, and I
meekly obeyed. The old air has a wonderful influence over me. I
heard it in western camp-meetings and negro-cabins when I was a
boy; I saw the 22d Massachusetts march down Broadway, singing the
same air during the rush to the front during the early days of the
war; I have heard it sung by warrior tongues in nearly every
Southern State; I heard it roared by three hundred good old Hunker
Democrats as they escorted New York's first colored regiment to
their place of embarkation; my old brigade sang it softly, but
with a swing that was terrible in its earnestness, as they lay
behind their stacks of arms just before going to action; I have
heard it played over the grave of many a dead comrade; the semi-
mutinous--the cavalry became peaceful and patriotic again as their
band-master played the old air after having asked permission to
try HIS hand on them; it is the same that burst forth
spontaneously in our barracks, on that glorious morning when we
learned that the war was over, and it was sung, with words adapted
to the occasion, by some good rebel friends of mine, on our first
social meeting after the war. All these recollections came
hurrying into my mind as I sang, and probably excited me beyond my
knowledge, for Budge suddenly remarked:--

"Don't sing that all day, Uncle Harry; you sing so loud, it hurts
my head."

"Beg your pardon, Budge," said I. "Good-night."

"Why, Uncle Harry, are you going? You didn't hear us say our
prayers,--papa always does."

"Oh! Well, go ahead."

"You must say yours first," said Budge; "that's the way papa
does."

"Very well," said I, and I repeated St. Chrysostom's prayer, from
the Episcopal service. I had hardly said "Amen," when Budge
remarked:--

"My papa don't say any of them things at all; I don't think that's
a very good prayer,"

"Well, you say a good prayer, Budge."

"Allright." Budge shut his eyes, dropped his voice to the most
perfect tone of supplication, while his face seemed fit for a
sleeping angel, then he said:--

"Dear Lord, we thank you for lettin' us have a good time to-day,
an' we hope all the little boys everywhere have had good times
too. We pray you to take care of us an' everybody else to-night,
an' don't let 'em have any trouble. Oh, yes, an' Uncle Harry's got
some candy in his trunk, cos he said so in the carriage,--we thank
you for lettin' Uncle Harry come to see us, an' we hope he's got
LOTS of candy--lots an' piles. An' we pray you to take good care
of all the poor little boys and girls that haven't got any papas
an' mammas an' Uncle Harrys an' candy an' beds to sleep in. An'
take us all to Heaven when we die, for Christ's sake. Amen. Now
give us the candy, Uncle Harry."

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