Suspecting that my pronunciation was at fault, I uttered the word again with the greatest distinctness, whereupon my mamma became hysterical and fled from the nursery. She brought my father up when he came home, and I observed she was still in tears.
“Such—such a dreadful thing,” she said; “he’s spoken, James.”
“Good business!” exclaimed my father. “The little beggar isn’t dumb then, thank the Lord. What did he say? I’ll bet he tried to lisp your name.”
“He didn’t lisp at all—he spoke only too clearly. I don’t know how to tell you. He—he swore!”
And my mamma broke down entirely, while my papa gazed upon me with frank amazement.
“He swore?” repeated my papa, blankly. “What at? Why should he swear? I’m sure no kid ever had a better time.”
“To think that the very first word which has passed his lips——!” cried my mamma.
“But what did he swear at?”
“At me, his own loving mother. I just woke him up and danced him and cuddled him and asked him when he was going to bring joy into my life and prattle sweet baby words into my ear. Then, without any warning, he said—he said, ‘Damn!’ And when I dropped him into his cradle and began to cry, he said it again!”
“Such a thing was never heard of in the whole history of infancy,” declared my father. “I see how it is; he’s picked it up from nurse. Nurse must go!”