138
The University Courier.
LITERARY.
Negatives.
I was calling the other evening when my hostess asked me in the most enthusiastic tones if I didn't want to see her darling little baby sister. "I know you will like her, the little dear, I am sure you will." With a feeble, sickly smile I assured her that I should be charmed to see the baby, but not to put herself to any trouble, and if the child was asleep I would wait until another time. No trouble at all, she assured me. The little treasure wasn't asleep and she would get her immediately.
I felt a crisis was at hand and braced myself for the struggle. Now I am free to confess I don't like babies. Nothing so "rattles" me as to have a baby sprung on me. I never know what to say or do. Babies all look alike to me: Soft, round and wriggly, with their little bald heads, their red mouths and their staring eyes, reminding one of burnt holes in a blanket. They are certainly the most curious beings that ever lived. Then a baby seems to have very peculiar judging or roaring faculties, and is certainly without the first principles of ethics or etiquette (at least this particular baby was).
When it was brought in, I looked at it and smiled; and the baby screwed up its face and began to cry. I changed my expression to one of thoughtful mein; the child stopped crying. Ah! I thought, a sensible little being after all; she can appreciate an intelligent face, (for I flattered myself mine was such, in my sober moods). But, alas, I must have been in error; immediately the child began to show signs of unrest and disregard for my feelings. I began to talk to her, and then felt foolish. My hostess' suggestion that I kiss her (the little darling) didn't relieve my embarassment. Nor did the baby seem to enjoy it either, for she began most vigorously to kick and squirm (more bad judgment on her part) with one little fist firmly clinched in my hair and the other in one or both of my eyes (I am uncertain which) she gave herself up to her emotions and wept.
My consternation and confusion cannot be imagined. I felt that I must do something, In my extreme embarassment I pulled out several fists from my eyes, swinging my watch until it stopped, and tossed the little imp, and cooed to her in the most outlandish fashion until I felt that my flesh throughout must have turned as red as a salmond's, and I longed for the seclusion of a cold solitary stream where I could plunge myself in and drown.
As no such place was available, finally in my despair and discomfiture I lost possession of my usually cast-iron nerves, and the child fell to the floor. With a look at me that would have cooled any thing less than Pluto's fire or my heated brow, my hostess picked the "little treasure" up. Immediately the child stopped its howling, nestled down in her arms and cooed as contentedly as a dove. As soon as etiquette would permit I took my departure. and as I turned my burning brow to the cooling zephers I could not, nor can I yet, arrive at any sane conclusion as to what ailed that child.
What a strange, sad havoc the relentless advance of time makes in the ranks of one's opinions. Up to within a few days, the writer had fondly nursed and caressed the delusion that there could be no greater simpleton than the man who, on the first day of April, could be led astray by those antiquated jokes, the innocent looking, brick-loaded hat and the dollar with a string tied to it. Now, alas! even this belief, cherished from infancy with touching solicitude, has been dispelled by the light of later experience, and relegated to a place among the ghosts of what were once striking realities. Just as firmly as the writer formerly believed that the April fool was the fool par excellence, just so firmly does he now believe that there are fools, in comparison with whom the April fool fades into insignificance. The cause of this disgraceful rout of early opinions is in this case of recent date, and as is usual in a great many other cases, its origin can be attributed to the intervention of woman.
With their accustomed sagacity and fertility