but it is "a' a muddle" to him. He
greets me exultantly after absence, because I have "come home pay coot
with Jamie"; and there is another secret out: that it is of no use to be
sentimental with a child. He loves you in proportion as you are
available. His papa and mamma fondly imagine they are dearer to him than
any one else, and it would be cruel to disturb that belief; but it would
be the height of folly to count yourself amiable because Jamie plants
himself firmly against the door, and pleads piteously, "Don' go in e
parly wite!" He wants you to "pay coot" with him,--that is all. If your
breakfast shawl is lying on a chair, it would not be sagacious to
attribute an affectionate unselfishness to him in begging leave to "go
give Baddy shawl t' keep Baddy back warm." It is only his greediness to
enter forbidden ground. Sentiment and sensibility have small lodgement
in his soul.

But when Jamie is duly forewarned, he is forearmed. Legally admitted
into the parlor to see visitors, he sits on the sofa by his mother's
side, silent, upright, prim, his little legs stuck straight out before
him in two stiff lines, presenting a full front view of his soles. By
the way, I wonder how long grown persons would sit still, if they were
obliged to assume this position. But Jamie maintains himself heroically,
his active soul subdued to silence, till Nature avenges herself, not
merely with a palpable, but a portentous yawn. "You may force me to this
unnatural quiet," she seems to say; "but if you expect to prevent me
from testifying that I think it intolerably stupid, you have reckoned
without your host."

And here Jamie comes out strongly in favor of democracy, universal
suffrage, political equality, the Union and the Constitution, the
Declaration of Independence, and the rights of man. Uncontaminated by
conventional rules, he recognizes the human being apart from his worldly
state. He is as silent and abashed in the presence of the day-laborer,
coarsely clad and rough of speech and manners, as in that of the
accomplished man of the world, or the daintiest silken-robed lady. With
simple gravity, and never a thought of wrong, he begs the poet, "Pease,
Missa Poet, tie up my shoe." He stands in awe before the dignity of the
human soul; but dress and rank and reputation receive no homage from
him. He is reverent, but to no false gods. The world finds room for
kingdoms and empires and oligarchies; but undoubtedly man is born a
democrat.