My little boy has got a rival, whose name is Henrik, a popinjay who not only is six years old, but has an supply of liquorice at his disposal. And, to fill the measure of my little boy's bitterness, Henrik is to go to the dancing-school; and I am, therefore, not surprised when my little boy asks to be taught to dance, so that he may not be left quite behind in the contest.
"I don't advise you to do that," I say. "The dancing which you learn at school is not pretty and does not play so great a part in love as you imagine. I don't know how to dance; and many charming ladies used to prefer me to the most of the ball-room. Besides, you know, you are knock-kneed."
And, to cheer him up, I sing a little song which we composed when we were small and had a dog and did not think about women:
See, my son, that little basset,
Running with his knock-kneed legs!
His own puppy, he can't catch it:
He'll fall down as sure as eggs!
Knock-kneed Billy!
Isn't he silly?
Silly Billy!
But poetry fails to comfort him. Dark is his face and desperate his glance. And, when I see that the case is serious, I resolve to resort to serious measures.
I take him with me to a ball, a real ball, where people who have learnt to dance go to enjoy themselves. It is difficult to keep him in a more or less waking condition, but I succeed.
We sit quietly in a corner and watch the merry . I say not a word, but look at his wide-open eyes.
"Father, why does that man jump like that, when he is so hot?"
"Yes; can you understand it?"
"Why does that lady with her head on one side look so tired? . . . Why does that fat woman about so funnily, Father? . . . Father, what queer legs that man there has!"
It rains questions and observations. We make jokes and laugh till the tears come to our eyes. We whisper naughty things to each other and go into a side-room and a pair of legs till we can't hold ourselves for laughter. We sit and wait till a steam thrashing-machine on its round comes past us; and we are fit to die when we hear it and blow.
We enjoy ours............