beauty. And I said: Truly, this is the nearest approach in this
world, to the paradise of long ago. Then I saw him skulking like a
cupid, in the shrubbery, his skirts bedraggled and soiled, his face
downcast with guilt. He had stirred up the Mediterranean Sea in the slop
bucket, and waded the Atlantic Ocean in a mud puddle. He had capsized
the goslings, and shipwrecked the young ducks, and drowned the kitten
which he imagined a whale, and I said: _There_ is the original Adam
coming to the surface.

[Illustration: THE PARADISE OF CHILDHOOD.]

"Lo'd bless my soul! Jist look at dat chile!" shouted his dusky old
nurse, as she lifted him, dripping, from the reeking pond. "What's you
bin doin' in dat mud puddle? Look at dat face, an' dem hands an' close,
all kivvered wid mud an' mulberry juice! You bettah not let yo' mammy
see you while you's in dat fix. You's gwine to ketch it sho'. You's jist
zackly like yo' fader--allers git'n into some scrape or nuddah, allers
breakin' into some kind uv devilment--gwine to break into congrus some
uv dese days sho'. Come along wid me dis instinct to de baff tub. I's
a-gwine to dispurgate dem close an' 'lucidate some uv dat dirt off'n
dat face uv yone, you triflin' rascal you!" And so saying, she carried
him away, kicking and screaming like a young savage in open rebellion,
and I said: _There_ is some more of the original Adam. Then I saw him
come forth again, washed and combed, and dressed in spotless white, like
a young butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. And when he got a chance,
I saw him slip on his tip-toes, into the pantry;

I heard the clink of glassware,
As if a mouse were playing there,

among the jam pots and preserves. There two little dimpled hands made
trip after trip to a rose-colored mouth, bearing burdens of mingling
sweets that dripped from cheek, and chin, and waist, and skirt, and
shoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach, and the
purple of the raspberry, as he ate the forbidden fruit. Then I watched
him glide into the drawing room. There was a crash and a thud in there,
which quickly brought his frightened mother to the scene, only to find
the young rascal standing there catching his breath, while streams of
cold ink trickled down his drenched bosom. And as he wiped his inky
face, which grew blacker with every wipe, the remainder of the ink was
pouring from the bottle down on the carpet, and making a map of darkest
Africa. Then the rear of a