“Examining her eyes? Any particular reason?” asked the father anxiously.
“Very particular. Mrs. Clyde wishes to send her to kindergarten for a year before she enters the public school. No child ought to begin school without a thorough test of vision.”
“What did the test show in Bettykin’s case?”
“Nothing except the defects of heredity.”
“Heredity? My sight is pretty good; and Mrs. Clyde’s is still better.”
“You two are not the Cherub’s only ancestors, however,” smiled the physician. “And you can hardly expect one or two generations to recast as delicate a bit of mechanism as the eye, which has been built up through millions of years of slow development. However, despite the natural deficiencies, there’s no reason in Betty why she shouldn’t start in at kindergarten next term, provided there isn’t any in the kindergarten itself.”
Mr. Clyde studied the non-committal face of his “Chinese physician,” as he was given to calling Dr. Strong since the latter had undertaken to safeguard the health of his household on the Oriental basis of being paid to keep the family well and sound. “Something is wrong with the school,” he decided.
“Read what it says of itself in that first paragraph,” replied Dr. Strong, handing him a rather pretentious little booklet.
In the prospectus of their “new and scientific kindergarten,” the Misses Sarsfield warmly congratulated themselves and their prospective pupils, primarily, upon the physical advantages of their school building which included a large work-and-play room, “with generous window space on all sides, and finished throughout in pure, glazed white.” This description the head of the Clyde household read over twice; then he stepped to the door to intercept Mrs. Clyde’s mother who was passing by.
“Here, Grandma,” said he. “Our Chinese tyrant had diagnosed something wrong with that first page. Do you discover any kink in it?”