A SESSION WITH UNCLE SIDNEY

Now, Tudens, you sit on this knee—and 'scuse It having no side-saddle on;—and, Jeems, You sit on this—and don't you wobble so And chug my old shins with your coppertoes;— And, all the rest of you, range round someway,— Ride on the rockers and hang to the arms Of our old-time splint-bottom carryall!— Do anything but squabble for a place, Or push or shove or scrouge, or breathe out loud, Or chew wet, or knead taffy in my beard!— Do anything almost—act anyway,— Only keep still, so I can hear myself Trying to tell you "just one story more!" One winter afternoon my father, with A whistle to our dog, a shout to us— His two boys—six and eight years old we were,— Started off to the woods, a half a mile From home, where he was chopping wood. We raced, We slipped and slid; reaching, at last, the north Side of Tharp's corn-field.—There we struck what seemed To be a coon-track—so we all agreed: And father, who was not a hunter, to Our glad surprise, proposed we follow it. The snow was quite five inches deep; and we, Keen on the trail, were soon far in the woods. Our old dog, "Ring," ran nosing the fresh track With whimpering delight, far on ahead. After following the trail more than a mile To northward, through the thickest winter woods We boys had ever seen,—all suddenly He seemed to strike another trail; and then Our joyful attention was drawn to Old "Ring"—leaping to this side, then to that, Of a big, hollow, old oak-tree, which had Been blown down by a storm some years before. There—all at once—out leapt a lean old fox From the black hollow of a big bent limb,— Hey! how he scudded!—but with our old "Ring" Sharp after him—and father after "Ring"— We after father, near as we could hold! And father noticed that the fox kept just About four feet ahead of "Ring"—just that— No farther, and no nearer! Then he said:— "There are young foxes in that tree back there,

And the mother-fox is drawing 'Ring' and us Away from their nest there!" "Oh, le' 's go back!— Do le' 's go back!" we little vandals cried,— "Le' 's go back, quick, and find the little things— Please, father!—Yes, and take 'em home for pets— 'Cause 'Ring' he'll kill the old fox anyway!" So father turned at last, and back we went, And father chopped a hole in the old tree About ten feet below the limb from which The old fox ran, and—Bless their little lives!— There, in the hollow of the old tree-trunk— There, on a bed of warm dry leaves and moss— There, snug as any bug in any rug— We found—one—two—three—four, and, yes-sir, five Wee, weenty-teenty baby-foxes, with Their eyes just barely opened—Cute?—my-oh!— The cutest—the most cunning little things Two boys ever saw, in all their lives! "Raw weather for the little fellows now!" Said father, as though talking to himself,— "Raw weather, and no home now!"—And off came His warm old "waumus"; and in that he wrapped The helpless little animals, and held Them soft and warm against him as he could,— And home we happy children followed him.— Old "Ring" did not reach home till nearly dusk: The mother-fox had led him a long chase— "Yes, and a fool's chase, too!" he seemed to say, And looked ashamed to hear us praising him. But, mother—well, we could not understand Her acting as she did—and we so pleased! I can see yet the look of pained surprise And deep compassion of her troubled face When father very gently laid his coat, With the young foxes in it, on the hearth Beside her, as she brightened up the fire. She urged—for the old fox's sake and theirs— That they be taken back to the old tree; But father—for our wistful sakes, no doubt— Said we would keep them, and would try our best To raise them. And at once he set about Building a snug home for the little things Out of an old big bushel-basket, with Its fractured handle and its stoven ribs: So, lining and padding this all cosily, He snuggled in its little tenants, and Called in John Wesley Thomas, our hired man, And gave him in full charge, with much advice Regarding the just care and sustenance of Young foxes.—"John," he said, "you feed 'em milk— Warm milk, John Wesley! Yes, and keep 'em by The stove—and keep your stove a-roarin', too, Both night and day!—And keep 'em covered up— Not smothered, John, but snug and comfortable.—

And now, John Wesley Thomas, first and last,— You feed 'em milk—fresh milk—and always warm— Say five or six or seven times a day— Of course we'll grade that by the way they thrive." But, for all sanguine hope, and care, as well, The little fellows did not thrive at all.— Indeed, with all our care and vigilance, By the third day of their captivity The last survivor of the fated five Squeaked, like some battered little rubber toy Just clean worn out.—And that's just what it was! And—nights,—the cry of the mother-fox for her young Was heard, with awe, for long weeks afterward. And we boys, every night, would go to the door And, peering out in the darkness, listening, Could hear the poor fox in the black bleak woods Still calling for her little ones in vain. As, all mutely, we returned to the warm fireside, Mother would say: "How would you like for me To be out there, this dark night, in the cold woods, Calling for my children?"

Uncle he says 'at 'way down in the sea Ever'thing's ist like it used to be:— He says they's mermaids, an' mermens, too, An' little merchildern, like me an' you— Little merboys, with tops an' balls, An' little mergirls, with little merdolls.

Uncle Sidney's vurry proud Of little Leslie-Janey, 'Cause she's so smart, an' goes to school Clean 'way in Pennsylvany!

She print' an' sent a postul-card To Uncle Sidney, telling How glad he'll be to hear that she "Toock the onners in Speling." Uncle he learns us to rhyme an' write An' all be poets an' all recite: His little-est poet's his little-est niece, An' this is her little-est poetry-piece.

O here's a little rhyme for the Spring- or Summer-time— An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!— Just a little bit o' tune you can twitter, May or June, An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho! It's a song that soars and sings, As the birds that twang their wings Or the katydids and things Thus and so, don't you know, An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho! It's a song just broken loose, with no reason or excuse— An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho! You can sing along with it—or it matters not a bit— An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho! It's a lovely little thing That 'most any one could sing With a ringle-dingle-ding, Soft and low, don't you know, An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!

Our dog Fred Et the bread.

Our dog Dash Et the hash.

Our dog Pete Et the meat.

Our dog Davy Et the gravy.

Our dog Toffy Et the coffee.

Our dog Jake Et the cake.

Our dog Trip Et the dip.

And—the worst, From the first,—

Our dog Fido Et the pie-dough.

Miss Medairy Dory-Ann Cast her line and caught a man,

But when he looked so pleased, alack! She unhooked and plunked him back.— "I never like to catch what I can," Said Miss Medairy Dory-Ann.

"Where's the crowd that dares to go Where I dare to lead?—you know!"

"Well, here's one!" Shouts Ezry Dunn.

"Count me two!" Yells Cootsy Drew.

"Here's yer three!" Sings Babe Magee.

"Score me four!" Roars Leech-hole Moore.

"Tally—five!" Howls Jamesy Clive.

"I make six!" Chirps Herbert Dix.

"Punctchul!—seven!" Pipes Runt Replevin. "Mark me eight!" Grunts Mealbag Nate. "I'm yet nine!" Growls "Lud'rick" Stein. "Hi! here's ten!" Whoops Catfish Ben. "And now we march, in daring line, For the banks of Brandywine!"

A wee little worm in a hickory-nut Sang, happy as he could be,—

"O I live in the heart of the whole round world, And it all belongs to me!"

A daring prince, of the realm Rangg Dhune, Once went up in a big balloon

That caught and stuck on the horns of the moon, And he hung up there till next day noon— When all at once he exclaimed, "Hoot-toot!" And then came down in his parachute.