Oh, yes, I do--I know a lot about 'em. I was one myself once, though not
long--not so long as my clothes. They were very long, I recollect, and
always in my way when I wanted to kick. Why do babies have such yards of
unnecessary clothing? It is not a riddle. I really want to know. I never
could understand it. Is it that the parents are ashamed of the size of
the child and wish to make believe that it is longer than it actually
is? I asked a nurse once why it was. She said:
"Lor', sir, they always have long clothes, bless their little hearts."
And when I explained that her answer, although doing credit to her
feelings, hardly disposed of my difficulty, she replied:
"Lor', sir, you wouldn't have 'em in short clothes, poor little dears?"
And she said it in a tone that seemed to imply I had suggested some
unmanly outrage.
Since than I have felt shy at making inquiries on the subject, and
the reason--if reason there be--is still a mystery to me. But indeed,
putting them in any clothes at all seems absurd to my mind. Goodness
knows there is enough of dressing and undressing to be gone through
in life without beginning it before we need; and one would think that
people who live in bed might at all events be spared the torture. Why
wake the poor little wretches up in the morning to take one lot of
clothes off, fix another lot on, and put them to bed again, and then
at 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
of clothes, except only that it would be of great convenience if some
fashion were adopted enabling you to tell a boy from a girl.
At present it is most awkward. Neither hair, dress, nor conversation
affords the slightest clew, and you are left to guess. By some
mysterious law of nature you invariably guess wrong, and are thereupon
regarded by all the relatives and friends as a mixture of fool and
knave, the enormity of alluding to a male babe as "she" being only
equaled by the atrocity of referring to a female infant as "he".
Whichever sex the particular child in question happens not to belong to
is considered as beneath contempt, and any mention of it is taken as a
personal insult to the family.
And as you value your fair name do not attempt to get out of the
difficulty 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 afterward
depositing their bodies in the water companies' reservoir, you will gain
much unpopularity in the neighborhood of your crime, and even robbing a
church will get you cordially disliked, especially by the vicar. But
if you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn 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 the epithet
is sure of being favorably received. "Pet" or "beauty" are useful for
variety's sake, but "angel" is the term that brings you the greatest
credit for sense and good-feeling. The word should be preceded by a
short giggle and accompanied by as much smile as possible. And whatever
you do, don't forget to say that the child has got its father's nose.
This "fetches" the parents (if I may be allowed a vulgarism) more than
anything. They will pretend to laugh at the idea at first and will say,
"Oh, nonsense!" You must then get excited and insist that it is a fact.
You need have no conscientious scruples on the subject, because the
thing's nose really does resemble its father's--at all events quite as
much as it does anything else in nature--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 of admiring
young ladies (not admiring you, though) behind, and a bald-headed dab of
humanity in front, you will be extremely thankful for some idea of
what to say. A man--an unmarried man, that is--is never seen to such
disadvantage as when undergoing the ordeal of "seeing baby." A cold
shudder runs down his back at the bare proposal, and the sickly smile
with which he says how delighted he shall be ought surely to move even
a mother's heart, unless, as I am inclined to believe, the whole
proceeding is a mere device adopted by wives to discourage the visits of
bachelor friends.
It is a cruel trick, though, whatever its excuse may be. The bell is
rung and somebody sent to tell nurse to bring baby down. This is the
signal for all the females present to commence talking "baby," during
which time you are left to your own sad thoughts and the speculations
upon the practicability of suddenly recollecting an important
engagement, and the likelihood of your being believed if you do.
Just when you have concocted an absurdly implausible tale about a
man outside, the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking woman enters,
carrying what at first sight appears to be a particularly skinny
bolster, with the feathers all at one end. Instinct, however, tells
you that this is the baby, and you rise with a miserable attempt at
appearing eager. When the first gush of feminine enthusiasm with which
the object in question is received has died out, and the number of
ladies talking at once has been reduced to the ordinary four or five,
the circle of fluttering petticoats divides, and room is made for you
to step forward. This you do with much the same air that you would walk
into the dock at Bow Street, and then, feeling unutterably miserable,
you stand solemnly staring at the child. There is dead silence, and you
know that every one is waiting for you to speak. You try to think
of something to say, but find, to your horror, that your reasoning
faculties have left you. It is a moment of despair, and your evil
genius, seizing the opportunity, suggests to you some of the most
idiotic remarks that it is possible for a human being to perpetrate.
Glancing round with an imbecile smile, you sniggeringly observe that "it
hasn't got much hair has it?" Nobody answers you for a 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 a second
chance, which you avail yourself of by inquiring if it can walk yet, or
what they feed it on.
By this time you have got to be regarded as not quite right in your
head, and pity is the only thing felt for you. The nurse, however, is
determined that, insane or not, there shall be no shirking and that you
shall go through your task to the end. In the tones of a high priestess
directing some religious mystery she says, holding the bundle toward
you:
"Take her in your arms, sir." You are too crushed to offer any
resistance and so meekly accept the burden. "Put your arm more down her
middle, sir," says the high-priestess, and then all step back and watch
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 certain
something must be done, and the only thing that occurs to you is
to heave the unhappy infant up and down to the accompaniment of
"oopsee-daisy," or some remark of equal intelligence. "I wouldn't jig
her, sir, if I were you," says the nurse; "a very little upsets her."
You promptly decide not to jig her and sincerely hope that you have not
gone too far already.
At this point the child itself, who has hitherto been regarding you with
an expression of mingled horror and disgust, puts an end to the nonsense
by beginning to yell at the top of its voice, at which the priestess
rushes forward and snatches it from you with "There! there! there!
What did ums do to ums?" "How very extraordinary!" you say pleasantly.
"Whatever made it go off like that?" "Oh, why, you must have done
something to her!" says the mother indignantly; "the child wouldn't
scream like that for nothing." It is evident they think you have been
running pins into it.
The brat is calmed at last, and would no doubt remain quiet enough, only
some mischievous busybody points you out again with "Who's this, baby?"
and the intelligent child, recognizing you, howls louder than ever.
Whereupon some fat old lady remarks that "it's strange how children take
a dislike to any one." "Oh, they know," replies another mysteriously.
"It's a wonderful thing," adds a third; and then everybody looks
sideways at you, convinced you are a scoundrel of the blackest dye; and
they glory in the beautiful idea that your true character, unguessed
by your fellow-men, has been discovered by the untaught instinct of a
little child.
Babies, though, with all their crimes and errors, are not without their
use--not without use, surely, when they fill an empty heart; not without
use when, at their call, sunbeams of love break through care-clouded
faces; not without use when their little fingers press wrinkles into
smiles.
Odd little people! They are the unconscious comedians of the world's
great stage. They supply the humor in life's all-too-heavy drama.
Each one, a small but determined opposition to the order of things in
general, is forever doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the
wrong place and in the wrong way. The nurse-girl who sent Jenny to
see what Tommy and Totty were doing and "tell 'em they mustn't" knew
infantile nature. Give an average baby a fair chance, and if it doesn't
do something it oughtn't to a doctor should be called in at once.
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 I shall 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.