nd. 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