"Wake up, wake up, my deary," said I, "and don't you be afraid of me. A fine little girl I've got at home, about twice the size that you be, and goes by the name of 'Bunny.'"
"Bunny!" she said; and I was surprised, not being up to her qualities, that she could speak so clearly. Then it struck me that if she could talk like that I might as well know more about her. So I began, very craftily, with the thing all children are proud about, and are generally sure to be up to.
"Pretty little soul," I said, "how old do you call yourself?"
At this she gathered up her forehead, not being used to the way I put it, while she was trying to think it out.
"How old are you, deary?" said I, trying hard to suck up my lips and chirp, as I had seen the nurses do.
"I'se two, I'se two," she answered, looking with some astonishment; "didn't 'a know that? Hot's 'a name?"
This proof of her high standing and knowledge of the world took me for the moment a good deal off my legs, until I remembered seeing it put as a thing all must give in to, that the rising generation was beyond our understanding. So I answered, very humbly, "Deary, my name is 'old Davy.' Baby, kiss old Davy."
"I 'ill," she answered, briskly. "Old Davy, I likes 'a. I'll be a good gal, I 'ill."
"A good girl! To be sure you will. Bless my heart, I never saw such a girl." And I kissed her three or four times over, until she began to smell my plug, and Bunny was nobody in my eyes. "But what's your own name, deary, now you know old Davy's name?"
"I'se Bardie. Didn't 'a know that?"