They have a genius for doing the most ridiculous things,and they do them in a grave,stoical manner that is irresistible.The business-like air with which two of them will join hands and proceed due east at a break-neck toddle,while an excitable big sister is roaring for them to follow her in a westerly direction,is most amusing--except,perhaps,for the big sister.They walk round a soldier,staring at his legs with the greatest curiosity,and poke him to see if he is real.They stoutly maintain,against all argument and much to the discomfort of the victim,that the bashful young man at the end of the 'bus is "dadda."A crowded street-corner suggests itself to their minds as a favorable spot for the discussion of family affairs at a shrill treble.When in the middle of crossing the road they are seized with a sudden impulse to dance,and the doorstep of a busy shop is the place they always select for sitting down and taking off their shoes.
When at home they find the biggest walking-stick in the house or an umbrella--open preferred-of much assistance in getting upstairs.They discover that they love Mary Ann at the precise moment when that faithful domestic is blackleading the stove,and nothing will relieve their feelings but to embrace her then and there.With regard to food,their favorite dishes are coke and cat's meat.They nurse pussy upside down,and they show their affection for the dog by pulling his tail.
They are a deal of trouble,and they make a place untidy and they cost a lot of money to keep;but still you would not have the house without them.It would not be home without their noisy tongues and their mischief-making hands.Would not the rooms seem silent without their pattering feet,and might not you stray apart if no prattling voices called you together?
It should be so,and yet I have sometimes thought the tiny hand seemed as a wedge,dividing.It is a bearish task to quarrel with that purest of all human affections--that perfecting touch to a woman's life--a mother's love.It is a holy love,that we coarser-fibered men can hardly understand,and I would not be deemed to lack reverence for it when I say that surely it need not swallow up all other affection.
The baby need not take your whole heart,like the rich man who walled up the desert well.Is there not another thirsty traveler standing by?
In your desire to be a good mother,do not forget to be a good wife.
No need for all the thought and care to be only for one.Do not,whenever poor Edwin wants you to come out,answer indignantly,"What,and leave baby!"Do not spend all your evenings upstairs,and do not confine your conversation exclusively to whooping-cough and measles.
My dear little woman,the child is not going to die every time it sneezes,the house is not bound to get burned down and the nurse run away with a soldier every time you go outside the front door;nor the cat sure to come and sit on the precious child's chest the moment you leave the bedside.You worry yourself a good deal too much about that solitary chick,and you worry everybody else too.Try and think of your other duties,and your pretty face will not be always puckered into wrinkles,and there will be cheerfulness in the parlor as well as in the nursery.Think of your big baby a little.Dance him about a bit;call him pretty names;laugh at him now and then.It is only the first baby that takes up the whole of a woman's time.Five or six do not require nearly so much attention as one.But before then the mischief has been done.A house where there seems no room for him and a wife too busy to think of him have lost their hold on that so unreasonable husband of yours,and he has learned to look elsewhere for comfort and companionship.
But there,there,there!I shall get myself the character of a baby-hater if I talk any more in this strain.And Heaven knows I am not one.Who could be,to look into the little innocent faces clustered in timid helplessness round those great gates that open down into the world?
The world--the small round world!what a vast mysterious place it must seem to baby eyes!What a trackless continent the back garden appears!What marvelous explorations they make in the cellar under the stairs!With what awe they gaze down the long street,wondering,like us bigger babies when we gaze up at the stars,where it all ends!
And down that longest street of all--that long,dim street of life that stretches out before them--what grave,old-fashioned looks they seem to cast!What pitiful,frightened looks sometimes!I saw a little mite sitting on a doorstep in a Soho slum one night,and Ishall never forget the look that the gas-lamp showed me on its wizen face--a look of dull despair,as if from the squalid court the vista of its own squalid life had risen,ghostlike,and struck its heart dead with horror.
Poor little feet,just commencing the stony journey!We old travelers,far down the road,can only pause to wave a hand to you.
You come out of the dark mist,and we,looking back,see you,so tiny in the distance,standing on the brow of the hill,your arms stretched out toward us.God speed you!We would stay and take your little hands in ours,but the murmur of the great sea is in our ears and we may not linger.We must hasten down,for the shadowy ships are waiting to spread their sable sails.
