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, recognising 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 fellowmen, 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 humour in life's all too heavy drama. Each one, a small but determined opposition to the order of things
