XI
Concerning Children
The Poet had been away for a week, and on his return to his accustomed post at the breakfast-table seemed but a shadow of his former self. His eyes were heavy and his long locks appeared straggly enough for a man of far more extended reputation as a singer of melodious verse.
"To judge from your appearance, Mr. Poet," said the Idiot, after welcoming his friend, "you've had a lively vacation. You certainly do not look as if you had devoted much of it to sleep."
"I haven't," said the Poet, wearily, "I haven't averaged more than two hours of sleep daily since I went away."
"I thought you told me you were going off into the country for a rest?" observed the Idiot.
"I did—and this is what comes of it," returned the Poet. "I went to visit my sister up in Saratoga County. She has seven children."
"Aha!" smiled the Idiot. "That's it, is it—well, I can sympathize with you. I've had experience with youngsters myself. I love 'em, but I like to take 'em on the instalment plan—very little at a time. I have a small cousin with a capacity for play and impudence that can't be equalled. His mother wrote me once and asked if I thought Hagenbeck, the wild-animal tamer, could be induced to take him in hand."
"That's the kind," put in the Poet, his face lighting up a little upon discovering that there was some one at least at the board who could sympathize with him. "My sister's seven are all of the wild-animal variety. I'd rather fall in with seven tigers than put in another week with my beloved nephews and nieces."
"Did they play Alp with you?" the Idiot asked, with a grin.
"Alp?" said the Poet. "No—not that I know of. They may have, however. I was hardly conscious of what they were doing the last two days of my stay there. They simply overpowered me, and I gave in and became a toy for the time."