Johnny is a little four-year-old, of bright, pleasant manners, and
remarkable for intelligence. The other evening his mother took him upon
her lap, and after stroking his curly head awhile, asked him if he knew
who made him. I grieve to state that instead of answering “Dod,” as
might have been expected, Johnny commenced cramming his face full of
ginger-bread, and finally took a fit of coughing that threatened the
dissolution of his frame. Having unloaded his throat and whacked him on
the back, his mother propounded the following supplementary conundrum:
“Johnny, are you not aware that at your age every little boy is
expected to say something brilliant in reply to my former question? How
can you so dishonour your parents as to neglect this golden
opportunity? Think again.”
The little urchin cast his eyes upon the floor and meditated a long
time. Suddenly he raised his face and began to move his lips. There is
no knowing what he might have said, but at that moment his mother noted
the pressing necessity of wringing and mopping his nose, which she
performed with such painful and conscientious singleness of purpose
that Johnny set up a war-whoop like that of a night-blooming tomcat.
It may be objected that this little tale is neither instructive nor
amusing. I have never seen any stories of bright children that were.