The Irish Giant Baby "At Home."
The exterior of the Show is painted to represent a Cottage, and bears the highly improbable name of "Polly O'Gracious," with an even less credible announcement that this is the identical "little cot where she was born." Inside is an ordinary tent, with a rough platform at the further end, whereon is an empty chair, at which a group of small Boys, two or three young Women, and some middle-aged Farm-labourers, have been solemnly and patiently staring for the last quarter of an hour.
First Farm Labourer (to Second). I bin in 'ere 'bout erf an hour, I hev, and ain't seed nowt so fur!
Second F. L. Same 'ere! Seems to take 'em a proper good time a-gittin' o' this 'ere baby claned up!
First F. L. Ah, it do. But look at the size on her!
Second F. L. Size! They cudn't be no slower not with a hellyphant!
[The tedium is relieved by a very audible dispute outside between the Driver of the Baby's Caravan and the Wife of the Conjuror next door, who appears to have excited the Driver's displeasure by consenting to take the money in the absence of the Baby's proprietress.
The Driver (with dignity). I consider it a bloomin' liberty, and a downright piece of himpertinence, you comin' 'ere interferin' with with my business—and so I tell yer!
The Lady (with more dignity). I'm not taking no liberties with nobody—she ast me to it, or I shoudn't be 'ere—I don't want to take the money, not without bein' ast to do so. She come and ast me to take her place while she was away, and in course I wasn't goin' to say no.
Driver. Don't you tork to me. I know what you are, puttin' yerself forward whenever yer can—a goin' tellin' the people on the road as you was the Baby's mother!
The Lady. I never said no such thing! Why should I want to tell sech a story for?
Driver. Arsk yourself—not me. And p'raps you never said you 'ad valuable property in our waggin' neither.
Lady (apparently cut to the heart by this accusation). It's a false'ood! I never 'ad no valuable property in your waggin', nor yet nobody else's; and I'll thank you to keep your distance, and not go raggin' me.
Driver (edging nearer), I'll keep my distance. But don't you make no mistake—I'm not to be played with! I'm sick o' your goin's on. And then(reviving a rankling and mysterious grievance) to think o' you a comin' mincin' up on the road with yer(mimicking), "Oh, yus, Mrs. Fairchild, there's a blacksmith jest across the way!" What call 'ad you got to shove your nose in like that, eh? you're a interferin' cat, that's what you are!
[The Conjuror's Lady is moved to the verge of tears and assault, and her wrath is only assuaged by the arrival of the missing Proprietress, who patches up a temporary peace; presently the hangings at the back are parted, and an immensely stout child, dressed in an infant's frock, waddles in, hoists herself on the platform and into the chair, from which she regards the Spectators with stolid composure; the small boys edge back, nudge one another and snigger furtively; the girls say "Oh, lor!" in a whisper, and a painful silence follows.
A Middle-aged Labourer (feeling the awkwardness of the situation). 'Ow old may you be, Missy?
The Giant Baby (with a snap). Ten!
[She gazes all round with the hauteur peculiar to a phenomenon, and her visitors are only relieved from the strain by the timely appearance of the Exhibitor, a Mulatto lady, who gives a brief biographical sketch of the Infant's career, with details of her weight and measurements. Then Miss Polly sings a stanza of "Little Annie Rooney" in a phonographic manner, dances a few ponderous steps, and identifies the most sheepish youth in the audience—much to his embarrassment—as her sweetheart, after which her audience is permitted to shake hands with her and depart.