ight, I acknowledged to myself. When a child comes into
the world the affection of the father is not to be compared to that of
the mother. With her it is love already. It seems that she has known him
for a long time, her pretty darling. At his first cry it might be said
that she recognized him. She seems to say, "It is he." She takes him
without the slightest embarrassment, her movements are natural, she
shows no awkwardness, and in her two twining arms the baby finds a place
to fit him, and falls asleep contentedly in the nest created for him.
It would be thought that woman serves a mysterious apprenticeship to
maternity. Man, on the other hand, is greatly troubled by the birth of
a child. The first wail of the little creature stirs him, but in this
emotion there is more astonishment than love. His affection is not yet
born. His heart requires to reflect and to become accustomed to these
fondnesses so new to him.

There is an apprenticeship to be served to the business of a father.
There is none to that of a mother.

If the father is clumsy morally in his love for his firstborn, it must
be acknowledged that he is so physically in the manifestation of his
fondness.

It is only tremblingly, and with contortions and efforts, that he lifts
the slight burden. He is afraid of smashing the youngster, who knows
this, and thence bawls with all the force of his lungs. He expands more
strength, poor man, in lifting up his child than he would in bursting
a door open. If he kisses him, his beard pricks him; if he touches
him, his big fingers cause him some disaster. He has the air of a bear
threading a needle.

And yet it must be won, the affection of this poor father, who, at
the outset, meets nothing but misadventures; he must be captivated,
captured, made to have a taste for the business, and not be left too
long to play the part of a recruit.

Nature has provided for it, and the father rises to the rank of corporal
the day the baby lisps his first syllables.

It is very sweet, the first lisping utterance of a child, and admirably
chosen to move--the "pa-pa" the little creature first murmurs. It is
strange that the first word of a child should express precisely the
deepest and tenderest sentiment of all?

Is it not touching to see that the little creature finds of himself the
word that is sure to touch him of whom he stands most in need; the word
that means, "I am yours, love me, give me a place in your heart, open
your