BABYS.
Babys i luv with all mi heart; they are mi sweetmeats, they warm up mi blood like a gin sling, they krawl into me and 131 nestle by the side ov mi soul, like a kitten under a cook stove.
I hav raized babys miself, and kno what i am talking about.
I hav got grandchildren, and they are wuss than the fust krop tew riot amung the feelings.
If i could hav mi way, i would change all the human beings now on the face ov the earth back into babys at once, and keep them thare, and make this footstool one grand nussery; but what i should do for wet nusses i don’t kno, nor don’t care.
I would like tew have 15 babys now on mi lap, and mi lap ain’t the handyest lap in the world for babys, neither.
My lap iz long enuff, but not the widest kind ov a lap.
I am a good deal ov a man, but i konsist ov length principally, and when i make a lap ov miself, it iz not a mattrass, but more like a couple ov rails with a jint in them.
I can hold more babys in mi lap at once, than any man in Amerika, without spilling one, but it hurts the babys.
I never saw a baby in mi life that i didn’t want tew kiss; i am wuss than an old maid in this respekt.