My little boy is engaged to be married.  
She is a big, large-limbed young woman, three years his senior, and no doubt belongs to the aristocracy. Her name is Gertie. By a misunderstanding, however, which is pardonable at his age and moreover quite explained by Gertie's appearance, he calls her Dirty—little Dirty—and by this name she will be handed down to history.
 
He met her on the boulevard, where he was playing, in the fine spring weather, with other children. His reason for the engagement is good enough:
 
"I wanted a girl for myself," he says.
 
Either I know very little of mankind or he has made a fortunate choice. No one is likely to take Dirty from him.
 
Like the gentleman that he is, he at once brings the girl home to us and introduces her. In consequence of the formality of the occasion, he does not go in by the kitchen way, as usual, but rings the front-door bell. I open the door myself. There he stands on the mat, hand in hand with Dirty, his bride, and, with radiant eyes:
 
"Father," he says, "this is little Dirty. She is my sweetheart. We are going to be married."
 
"That is what people usually do with their sweethearts," I answer, . "Pray, Dirty, come in and be welcomed by the family."
 
"Wipe your feet, Dirty," says my little boy.
 
The mother of my little boy does not think much of the match. She has even spoken of forbidding Dirty the house.
 
"We can't do that," I say. "I am not in over it either, but it is not at all certain that it will last."
 
"Yes, but . . ."
 
"Do you remember what little use it was when your mother forbade me the house? We used to meet in the most incredible places and kiss each other terribly. I can quite understand that you have forgotten, but you ought to bear it in mind now that your son's beginning. And you ought to value the of his behaviour towards his parents."
 
"My dear! . . ."
 
"And then I must remind you that it is spring. The trees are budding. You can't see it, perhaps, from the kitchen-window or from your work-table, but I, who go about all day, have noticed it. You know what Byron says:
 
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine."
 
And so Dirty is accepted.
 
But, when she calls, she has first to undergo a short quarantine, while the mother of my little boy washes her and combs her hair .
 
Dirty does not like this, but the boy does. He looks on with extraordinary interest and at once complains if there is a place that has escaped the sponge. I can't make out what goes on within him on these occasions. There is a good deal of cruelty in love; and he himself hates to be washed. P............