into the water. Oh,
my--_wasn't_ it cold? An' every step he took that little boy got
heavier, so Ferus nearly tumbled down an' they liked to both got
drownded. An' when they got across the river Ferus said, 'Well, you
_are_ the heaviest small fry I ever carried,' and he turned around to
look at him, an' 'twasn't no little boy at all--'twas a big man--'twas
Christ. An' Christ said, 'Ferus, I heard you was tryin' to work for me,
so I thought I'd come down an' see you, an' not let you know who I was.
An' now you shall have a new name; you shall be called _Christ_offerus,
cos that means Christ-carrier.' An' everybody called him Christofferus
after that, an' when he died they called him _Saint_ Christopher, cos
Saint is what they called good people when they're dead."

Budge himself had the face of a rapt saint as he told this story, but my
contemplation of his countenance was suddenly arrested by Toddie, who,
disapproving of the unexciting nature of his brother's recital, had
strayed into the garden, investigated a hornet's nest, been stung, and
set up a piercing shriek. He ran in to me, and as I hastily picked him
up, he sobbed:

"Want to be wocked.[2] Want 'Toddie one boy day.'"

I rocked him violently, and petted him tenderly, but again he sobbed:

"Want 'Toddie one boy day.'"

"What _does_ the child mean?" I exclaimed.

"He wants you to sing to him about 'Charley boy one day,'" said Budge.
"He always wants mama to sing that when he's hurt, an' then he stops
crying."

"I don't know it," said I. "Won't 'Roll, Jordan,' do, Toddie?"

"_I'll_ tell you how it goes," said Budge, and forthwith the youth sang
the following song, a line at a time, I following him in words and air:

"Where is my little bastik[3] gone?"
Said Charley boy one day;
"I guess some little boy or girl
Has taken it away.

"An' kittie, too--where _ish_ she gone?
Oh, dear, what I shall do?
I wish I could my bastik find,
An' little kittie, too.

"I'll go to mamma's room an' look;
Perhaps she may be there;
For kittie likes to take a nap
In mamma's easy chair.

"O mamma, mamma, come an' look?
See what a little heap!
Here's kittie in the bastik here,
All cuddled down to sleep."

Where the applicability of this poem to my nephew's peculiar trouble
appeared, I could not see, but as I finished it, his sobs gave place to
a sigh of relief.

"Toddie," said I, "do you love your Uncle Harry?"

"Es