Oh, yes, I do--I know a lot about 'em. I was one myself once, thoughnot long--not so long as my clothes. They were very long, Irecollect, and always in my way when I wanted to kick. Why do babieshave such yards of unnecessary clothing? It is not a riddle. Ireally want to know. I never could understand it. Is it that theparents are ashamed of the size of the child and wish to make believethat it is longer than it actually is? I asked a nurse once why itwas. She said:
"Lor', sir, they always have long clothes, bless their little hearts."And when I explained that her answer, although doing credit to herfeelings, hardly disposed of my difficulty, she replied:
"Lor', sir, you wouldn't have 'em in short clothes, poor littledears?" And she said it in a tone that seemed to imply I hadsuggested some unmanly outrage.
Since than I have felt shy at making inquiries on the subject, and thereason--if reason there be--is still a mystery to me. But indeed,putting them in any clothes at all seems absurd to my mind. Goodnessknows there is enough of dressing and undressing to be gone through inlife without beginning it before we need; and one would think thatpeople who live in bed might at all events be spared the torture. Whywake the poor little wretches up in the morning to take one lot ofclothes off, fix another lot on, and put them to bed again, and thenat night haul them out once more, merely to change everything back?
And when all is done, what difference is there, I should like to know,between a baby's night-shirt and the thing it wears in the day-time?
Very likely, however, I am only making myself ridiculous--I often do,so I am informed--and I will therefore say no more upon this matter ofclothes, except only that it would be of great convenience if somefashion were adopted enabling you to tell a boy from a girl.
At present it is most awkward. Neither hair, dress, nor conversationaffords the slightest clew, and you are left to guess. By somemysterious law of nature you invariably guess wrong, and are thereuponregarded by all the relatives and friends as a mixture of fool andknave, the enormity of alluding to a male babe as "she" being onlyequaled by the atrocity of referring to a female infant as "he".
Whichever sex the particular child in question happens not to belongto is considered as beneath contempt, and any mention of it is takenas a personal insult to the family.
And as you value your fair name do not attempt to get out of thedifficulty by talking of "it."There are various methods by which you may achieve ignominy and shame.
By murdering a large and respected family in cold blood and afterwarddepositing their bodies in the water companies' reservoir, you willgain much unpopularity in the neighborhood of your crime, and evenrobbing a church will get you cordially disliked, especially by thevicar. But if you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup ofscorn and hatred that a fellow human creature can pour out for you,let a young mother hear you call dear baby "it."Your best plan is to address the article as "little angel." The noun"angel" being of common gender suits the case admirably, and theepithet is sure of being favorably received. "Pet" or "beauty" areuseful for variety's sake, but "angel" is the term that brings you thegreatest credit for sense and good-feeling. The word should bepreceded by a short giggle and accompanied by as much smile aspossible. And whatever you do, don't forget to say that the child hasgot its father's nose. This "fetches" the parents (if I may beallowed a vulgarism) more than anything. They will pretend to laughat the idea at first and will say, "Oh, nonsense!" You must then getexcited and insist that it is a fact. You need have no conscientiousscruples on the subject, because the thing's nose really does resembleits father's--at all events quite as much as it does anything else innature--being, as it is, a mere smudge.
Do not despise these hints, my friends. There may come a time when,with mamma on one side and grand mamma on the other, a group ofadmiring young ladies (not admiring you, though) behind, and abald-headed dab of humanity in front, you will be extremely thankfulfor some idea of what to say. A man--an unmarried man, that is--isnever seen to such disadvantage as when undergoing the ordeal of"seeing baby." A cold shudder runs down his back at the bareproposal, and the sickly smile with which he says how delighted heshall be ought surely to move even a mother's heart, unless, as I aminclined to believe, the whole proceeding is a mere device adopted bywives to discourage the visits of bachelor friends.
It is a cruel trick, though, whatever its excuse may be. The bell isrung and somebody sent to tell nurse to bring baby down. This is thesignal for all the females present to commence talking "baby," duringwhich time you are left to your own sad thoughts and the speculationsupon the practicability of suddenly recollecting an importantengagement, and the likelihood of your being believed if you do. Justwhen you have concocted an absurdly implausible tale about a manoutside, the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking woman enters,carrying what at first sight appears to be a particularly skinnybolster, with the feathers all at one end. Instinct, however, tellsyou that this is the baby, and you rise with a miserable attempt atappearing eager. When the first gush of feminine enthusiasm withwhich the object in question is received has died out, and the numberof ladies talking at once has been reduced to the ordinary four orfive, the circle of fluttering petticoats divides, and room is madefor you to step forward. This you do with much the same air that youwould walk into the dock at Bow Street, and then, feeling unutterablymiserable, you stand solemnly staring at the child. There is deadsilence, and you know that every one is waiting for you to speak. Youtry to think of something to say, but find, to your horror, that yourreasoning faculties have left you. It is a moment of despair, andyour evil genius, seizing the opportunity, suggests to you some of themost idiotic remarks that it is possible for a human being toperpetrate. Glancing round with an imbecile smile, you sniggeringlyobserve that "it hasn't got much hair has it?" Nobody answers you fora minute, but at last the stately nurse says with much gravity:
"It is not customary for children five weeks old to have long hair."Another silence follows this, and you feel you are being given asecond chance, which you avail yourself of by inquiring if it can walkyet, or what they feed it on.
By this time you have got to be regarded as not quite right in yourhead, and pity is the only thing felt for you. The nurse, however, isdetermined that, insane or not, there shall be no shirking and thatyou shall go through your task to the end. In the tones of a highpriestess directing some religious mystery she says, holding thebundle toward you:
"Take her in your arms, sir." You are too crushed to offer anyresistance and so meekly accept the burden. "Put your arm more downher middle, sir," says the high-priestess, and then all step back andwatch you intently as though you were going to do a trick with it.
What to do you know no more than you did what to say. It is certainsomething must be done, and the only thing that occurs to you is toheave the unhappy infant up and down to the accompaniment of"oopsee-daisy," or some remark of equal intelligence. "I wouldn't jigher, sir, if I were you,&............