My little friend wept silently.
“Come, come, my lad, cheer up,” I said, “You must remember that the ranks of the immortal geniuses of the world have been largely recruited from such material as yourself.”
“You doubtless mean to be consoling, my dear sir,” replied the child, “but you forget the chief consolation contained in your argument.”
“Pray, what is that?” I asked.
“Why those degenerate geniuses die young, and leave no posterity to perpetuate their misery.”
“You are right,” I said, musingly. “I did not think of that.”
“Do you know, doctor, that the most philosophic bon mot ever perpetrated, and the one which seems most appropriate to my case, is that facetious description which somebody gave of the mule. He said, if I remember correctly, that the mule was an animal which had no ‘pride of paternity and no hope of posterity’.”
“And yet,” I replied, “the mule is not the happiest and most placid animal in the world. The clam is his superior in many respects.”
“Yes, and there are many human clams. I fancy, however, that you do not envy them, doctor.”
“Well, I am not so sure about that, my dear young friend. The higher emotions and more refined sensibilities are the foundation of most of the sorrows of life.”