THE SAYINGS OF BARBARA.
The man who sets out to expose popular fallacies or to confound time-honoured legends is bound to make enemies.
The latest legend I have been privileged to explore is not the product of superstition and slow time, but a deliberately manufactured growth of comparatively recent origin. It is concerned with Barbara, not the impersonal lady who figures in the old logic-book doggerel, but an extremely live and highly illogical person to whom for half a decade I have had the honour to be father. It is also concerned with Barbara's Aunt Julia and, in a lesser degree, with Barbara's mother.
From the time (just over three years ago) when Barbara first attempted articulate speech I have been bombarded with reports of the wonderful things my daughter has said. In the earlier years these diverting stories, for which Julia was nearly always cited as authority, reached me through the medium of the Field Post-Office, and, being still fairly new to fatherhood, I used proudly to retail them in Mess, until an addition was made to the rule relating to offences punishable by a round of drinks.
On my brief visits home I would wait expectantly for the brilliant flashes of humour or of uncanny intelligence to issue from Barbara's lips, and her failure during these periods to sustain her reputation I was content to explain on the assumption that I came within the category of casual visitors. But I have now lived in my own home for over a year, and Barbara and I have become very well acquainted. She talks to me without restraint, and at times most engagingly, but seldom, if ever, does she give utterance in my hearing to a jeu d'esprit that I feel called upon to repeat to others. Nevertheless until a few days ago I was still constantly being informed—chiefly by Barbara's aunt and less frequently by her mother—of the "killing" things that child had been saying. I grew privately sceptical, but had no proof, and it was only by accident that I was at last enabled to prick the bubble.
Julia (who besides being Barbara's aunt is Suzanne's sister) had come to tea and was chatting in the drawing-room with Suzanne (who besides being Julia's sister is Barbara's mother and my wife) and Barbara (whose relationship all round has been sufficiently indicated). The drawing-room door was open, and so was that of my study on the opposite side of the passage, where I was coquetting with a trifle of work. The conversation, which I could not help overhearing, was confined for the most part to Julia and Barbara, and ran more or less on the following lines:—
Julia. Where's Father, Babs?
Barbara. In the libery.
Julia. Working hard, I suppose?
Barbara. Yes.
Julia. Or do you think he's sleeping? (No answer.) Don't you think father's probably asleep half the time he's supposed to be working?
Barbara. Probly. What you got in that bag?
Julia. I expect that big armchair he sits in is just a weeny bit too comfy for real work.
Barbara. I've eated up all those choc'lates you did bring me.
Julia. Perhaps we'll find some more presently. Do you think Father writes in his sleep?
Barbara. Yes, I fink he does.
Julia. Listen to her, Suzie. I expect really he only dreams he's working. Don't you, Babs?
At this point I thought it advisable, for the sake of preserving the remnants of my parental authority, to come in to tea. Julia was handing Barbara a packet of chocolate, and greeted me with an arch inquiry as to whether I had been busy writing. I replied with a hearty affirmative.
"You ought to hear what your daughter has been saying about you," said Julia.
"Oh, and what does Barbara say?" I asked.
"She says that when Father sits in that stuffy little room of his he usually writes in his sleep. She really does take the most amazing notice of things, and the way she expresses herself is quite weird."
"So Barbara says I write in my sleep?"
"Yes, you heard her, didn't you, Suzie? Oh, and did I tell you that the other day, during that heavy thunderstorm, she said that the angels and the devils must be having a big battle and that she supposed the angels would soon be going over the top?"
"Come here, Barbara," I said.
Barbara, who at her too fond aunt's request had been granted the privilege of taking tea in the drawing-room, stuffed the better half of a jam sandwich into her mouth and came.
"Do you see those rich-looking pink cakes?" I asked her. "You shall have one as soon as we've had a little talk."
"The biggest and pinkiest one?" demanded Barbara.
"Yes. Now tell me—don't you think that people ought always to speak the truth, and to be especially careful not to distort the remarks of others?"
"Yes. Can I have the one with the greeny thing on it?"
"Certainly, in a minute. And don't you think that women are much more careless of the truth than men?"
"Yes. Can I——"
"Do you love your Aunt Julia?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Cos she always has got choc'lates in her bag."
"But don't you think it's much more important to have the truth in your heart than chocolates in your bag?"
"Yes. Now can I have my pink cake?"
I released and rewarded her, and Julia prepared to speak her mind. Fortunately, however, just at that moment my brother Tom, who is Barbara's godfather, came in.
"Why, what a big girl we're getting!" he observed to Barbara in his best godfatherly manner. "I suppose we shall soon be going to school?"
"Oh, no, not yet awhile," I interposed. "The fact is she's already far too forward, and we think it a good thing to keep her back a bit. You'd never believe the amazing remarks she makes. Just now, for instance, we happened to be discussing the comparative love of truth inherent in men and women, and Barbara chipped in and told me she thought women were far more careless of the truth than men."
"Good heavens!" said Tom, who is a bachelor by conviction. "She certainly hit the nail on the head there."
"Yes, and she added that she herself prized truth above chocolates."
"It sounds almost incredible," gasped Tom.
"Doesn't it? But ask Julia; she heard it all. And Julia will also tell you what Barbara remarked about my work."
But Julia, who was already gathering her furs about her, followed up an unusual silence by a sudden departure.
From what Suzanne has since refrained from saying I am confident that I've broken the back of one more legend, and saved Barbara from the fate of having to pass the rest of her childhood living up (or down) to a spurious halo of precocity.
AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE.
Small Boy (much impressed). "The ticket-collector said 'Good evening' to dad."
Mother. "Yes, dear, he always does. And perhaps, if you're good, he'll say the same to you—when you've travelled on this line for twenty-five years."
Another Impending Apology.
"Departure of the Lieut.-Governor. Enthusiastic Scenes."
Channel Islands Paper.
"Indeed, it is simple to understand why the Canadian portion of the audience almost rise from their seats when Fergus Wimbus, the 'Man,' says, 'Canada is the land of big things, big thoughts, bing hopes."
—Provincial Paper.
Not forgetting the "Byng Boys" either.
MUSICAL CARETAKERS.
["A lady is willing to give a thoroughly-good Home to a Grand Piano (German make preferred), also a Cottage, for anyone going abroad."
—Morning Paper.]
A Gramophone of small to medium age can be received as p.g. in select Residential Hotel. Young, bright, musical society. Separate tables.
Will any Lady or Gentleman offer hospitality on the Cornish Riviera for the winter months to an ex-service Cornet suffering from chronic asthma (slight)?
Bag-pipes (sisters) in reduced circumstances owing to the War, seek sit. as Companions or Mother's Helps, town or country.
From a list of forthcoming productions:—
"Theatre Royal, ——. Boo Early."
Old Lady. "And how is your dear mother, to-day?"
Child of the Period. "Oh, she's rotten."