"H'm!" grunted Mr. Burton.

"An' you might take fings to eat wif you," suggested Toddie, "an' when
you got real tired and felt bad, you might stop and have a little
picnic. I fink that would be dzust the fing for a man wif the toothache.
And we could help you lotsh."

"I'll see how I feel after dinner," said Mr. Burton. "But what are you
going to do for me between now and then, to make me feel better?"

"We tell you storiezh," said Toddie. "_Them's_ what sick folks alwayzh
likesh."

"Very well," said Mr. Burton. "Begin right away."

"Aw wight," said Toddie. "Do you want a sad story or a d'zolly one?"

"Anything," said Mr. Burton. "Men with the toothache can stand nearly
anything. Don't draw on your imagination _too_ hard."

"Don't _never_ draw on madzinasuns," said Toddie; "I only draws on
slatesh."

"Never mind; give us the story."

"Well," said Toddie, seating himself in a rocking-chair, and fixing his
eyes on the ceiling, "guesh I'll tell about AbrahammynIsaac. Onesh the
Lord told a man named Abraham to go up the mountain an' chop his little
boy's froat open an' burn him up on a naltar. So Abraham started to go
to do it. An' he made his little boy Isaac, that he was going to chop
and burn up carry the kindlin' wood he was goin' to set him a-fire wiz.
An' I want to know if you fink that wazh very nysh of him?"

"Well,--no," said Mr. Burton.

"Tell you what," said Budge, "you don't ever catch _me_ carryin' sticks
up the mountain, even if my papa wants me to."

"When they got up there," said Toddie, "Abraham made a naltar an' put
little Ikey on it, an' took a knife an' was goin' to chop his froat
open, when a andzel came out of hebben an' said: 'Stop a-doin' that.' So
Abraham stopped, an' Ikey skooted; an' Abraham saw a sheep caught in the
bushes, an' he caught _him_ an' killed him. He wasn't goin' to climb way
up a mountain to kill somebody an' not have his knife bluggy a bit. An'
he burned the sheep up. An' then he went home again."

"I'll bet you Isaac's mamma never knew what his papa wanted to do with
him," said Budge, "or she'd never let her little boy go away in the
mornin'. Do you want to bet?"

"N--no, not on Sunday, I guess," said Mr. Burton. "Now, suppose you
little boys go out of doors and play for a while, while uncle tries to
get a nap."

The boys accepted the suggestion and disappeared. Half an hour later, as
Mrs. Burton was walking home from church under escort of old General
Porcupine,