Of course every mother is apt to think that her Johnny or Jenny is nature's highest utterance. But for blind, unreasoning adoration, commend me to a fond grandmamma.
The first time I took my child on a visit to my mother in dear old Brittany, grandmamma received compliments enough on the subject of the "lovely petite blonde" to turn her head. But it did not want much turning, I must say. One afternoon, my wife was sitting with Miss Baby on her lap, and grandmamma, after devouring the child with her eyes for a few moments, said to us:
"You are two very sensible parents. Some people are so absurd about their babies! Take Madame T., for instance. She was here this morning, and really, to hear her talk, one would think that child of hers was an angel of beauty—that there never was such another."
"Well, but, grandmamma," said my wife, "you know yourself that you are forever discoursing of the matchless charms of our baby to your friends."
"Ah!" cried the dear old lady, as serious as a judge; "but that's quite different; in our case it's all true."
If you ever hope to find the British schoolboy at fault, your life will be a series of disappointments. Judge for yourself.
I (once): "Well, Brown, you bring no exercise this morning. How is that?"
Promising Briton: "Please, sir, you said yesterday that we were to do the 17th exercise."