ff wheeler, the old lady passenger, and, under penalty of
paying a forfeit, must get up and turn round when the grown-up, who is
improvising a thrilling story, mentions that particular object; and when
the word "stage-coach" is mentioned, everybody has to get up and turn
round. Well, we used to play stage-coach on the float while in swimming,
and instead of tamely getting up and turning round, the child whose
turn it was had to plunge overboard. When I mentioned "stage-coach," the
water fairly foamed with vigorously kicking little legs; and then there
was always a moment of interest while I counted, so as to be sure
that the number of heads that came up corresponded with the number of
children who had gone down.

No man or woman will ever forget the time when some child lies sick of a
disease that threatens its life. Moreover, much less serious sickness is
unpleasant enough at the time. Looking back, however, there are elements
of comedy in certain of the less serious cases. I well remember one such
instance which occurred when we were living in Washington, in a small
house, with barely enough room for everybody when all the chinks were
filled. Measles descended on the household. In the effort to keep the
children that were well and those that were sick apart, their mother and
I had to camp out in improvised fashion. When the eldest small boy was
getting well, and had recovered his spirits, I slept on a sofa beside
his bed--the sofa being so short that my feet projected over anyhow. One
afternoon the small boy was given a toy organ by a sympathetic friend.
Next morning early I was waked to find the small boy very vivacious
and requesting a story. Having drowsily told the story, I said, "Now,
father's told you a story, so you amuse yourself and let father go to
sleep"; to which the small boy responded most virtuously, "Yes, father
will go to sleep and I'll play the organ," which he did, at a distance
of two feet from my head. Later his sister, who had just come down with
the measles, was put into the same room. The small boy was convalescing,
and was engaged in playing on the floor with some tin ships, together
with two or three pasteboard monitors and rams of my own manufacture. He
was giving a vivid rendering of Farragut at Mobile Bay, from memories
of how I had told the story. My pasteboard rams and monitors were
fascinating--if a naval architect may be allowed to praise his own
work--and as property they were equally