Handsome is that handsome does.
John. Mama, I want something to look at; what can I have?
Mother. Why, my dear, cannot you find something in the room to look at—some pretty story-book, or amusing puzzle?
J. No, mama, I don’t want to read, or be puzzled either; and I have looked at the shells and fossils on the mantelpiece, and the gold fishes in the globe, and counted the window-panes and the flowers on the carpet twenty times, and I’ve been looking into the looking-glass for the last half hour.
M. Into the looking-glass, John! for what purpose?
J. That I might know how handsome I am, mama.
M. Why, do you really think that you are handsome?
J. Yes, mama; do not you?
M. Only sometimes.