Its mother says the darling is troubled with—oh, don’t mention it. I have got to get up in the cold and shiver while the milk warms—it uses the bottle. I tried to stop its growth the other night; it was no go. I rocked so hard that I missed stays, and sent it slap clear across the room, upsetting the flower-stand. It didn’t make any noise then! Oh, no! I was a happy man. Oh, yes. (A pause.) That baby’s mother says only wait until it gets bleached (it’s been vaccinated) and old enough to crawl about and feed on pins. Yes, I’m going to wait. Won’t it be delightful?
John, run for the doctor; it’s fallen into the slop pail; it’s choking with a peach-skin; or it has fallen down stairs; or has swallowed the tack-hammer; or shows signs of the mumps, croup, whooping cough, small pox, cholera infantum, or some other curious thing to let the doctor take the money laid by for my winter’s donation to the poor.
Shampooing, curling my hair, wearing nice clothes, going to parties? Oh, no more of that! No—more—of—that. A baby—oh! I’m an old fellow now. Adieu, vain world!
AN EGG A CHICKEN.
“An egg a chicken! Don’t tell me!
For didn’t I break an egg to see?
There was nothing inside but a yellow ball,
With a bit of mucillage round it all—