OW, Billy Whiskers, this is much like your experience in the early summer at the Circus, and you know full well what dire consequences followed then,” scolded the goat, for one of Billy’s favorite pastimes was to talk to himself as though he were two goats, Billy the good reproving Billy the mischief-maker; Billy the first admonishing Billy the second for his escapades and bewailing his abnormal capacity for evil doing.
“It is high time that you decide to keep out of harm’s way,” he continued with a wag of the head, “for if you don’t, someone with a blue coat and a shiny piece of metal on his breast will catch you and then there’ll be the end of all fun and the beginning of a most dreary time in captivity.”
“Well, well,” impatiently agreed the fun-loving goat, “you’re in the right, as always, wise William, and we’ll reform—for to-day. We’ll see all there is to be seen at this Fair in a becoming manner, though I fear me it will be a trifle dull and prosy—like spice cake minus the spice.”
All this time he had been ambling slowly along, following the general trend of the crowd down a street lined both sides with booths and buildings which flaunted the gayest of bunting and flags, and now he drew up with a start as he found himself at the end and facing an open door, for he was wary of buildings in view of his recent experience in the needlework department.
Here before him was a great sea of faces. Long rows of chairs and in every one of them a woman with a baby! Babies and babies and babies were there. Some were fat and rosy, well content to sit quietly on their proud mothers’ laps, others were lean and agile, and forever on the move, but all were beruffled and belaced in billowing garments of purest white.
“Ah!” ruminated Billy, “this must be the Baby Show. I heard Mrs. Treat talking about it the other day. I’ll see what sort of specimens are carrying off the palm these days,” and in he sauntered.
“Now I’m sure that if my Dick was a baby again, he’d have first place. Even now he is the roundest, rosiest, merriest little youngster I’ve ever met—and goodness knows, I’m rather an experienced judge. Didn’t I see thousands and thousands of boys and girls all last summer? If ever you wish to see all sorts and kinds, the Circus is the place for you. Why, I remember one day—but there, to the business in hand,” and he commenced to pace slowly down one aisle.
“Isn’t she the dearest thing?” ejaculated one woman immediately in front of Billy, pausing so suddenly to fondle a baby all done up in blue ribbons and lace that Billy, now on his good behavior, had much ado to save her from an uncomfortable and unpleasant encounter with his horns. With skilful maneuvering, however, he essayed to pass by, but, his curiosity aroused, he peered around to discover the cause of her admiring words.
By this time the baby was undergoing a series of pattings and huggings at the hands of the visitor, while the delighted mother hovered over the two.
“Doesn’t she look bright? But then, she ought to be. Now my Jamie, he’s only five, and he’s the smartest boy,” and motherly pride beamed as she launched into the story.
“Jamie is the cutest chap, and can wind his father right round his little finger and lead him where he pleases. Last winter when Washington’s birthday came, I thought he was old enough to hear about the Father of his country, so I told him all about the boy George. The next morning I saw him climb up on his father’s lap and, opening his big blue eyes in that cunning way all his own, he asked:
“‘Papa, did George Washington really and truly cut down that cherry-tree?’”
“‘Yes, my son, so they say.’”
“‘And didn’t his papa whip him for being so dreadfully naughty?’ with a shake of the head to express his wonder.”
“‘No. You see, Jamie, he was proud to have a son who was brave enough to tell the truth even though he thought a whipping would follow owning up.’”
“‘Well, papa, would you whip me if I cut down a tree?’ came next from our boy.”
“‘I think not, Jamie. Yes, I’m sure I would not whip you. I would be just every bit as proud of you for telling the honest truth as George Washington’s father was of his boy.’”
“‘Say, father,’ and Jamie snuggled up closer to his father, ‘I never told you, but one day last summer I went over to Rob’s house and—and—I ate a whole bushel, almost, of mulberries!’ came the hesitating confession.” And the mother glanced around quickly to note the effect of the story on her audience.
“He is a little diplomat, that I see from your story,” commented one of the group of ladies who had gathered about.
“Boys are dears,” offered a little old lady, dressed in quiet gray that matched the silver of her waving hair and brought out the wonderful blue of her beautiful eyes, still alight with youthful fire. “Of course I never had a son, nor a daughter either, for that matter, but years ago I lived next to a little girl named Alice, and then I decided that girls were really nicer than boys.
“Alice was the brightest child, and it was my delight that she came to my home for a daily call.
“I always kept a jar of cookies in the kitchen cupboard, just in easy reach for her, for Alice was passionately fond of cookies, and especially if they boasted a raisin in the center. She always visited that cupboard as soon as she came in, and always found the jar was waiting for her with its store.
“But one day her mother told me the habit must not be allowed to grow, and so I promised faithfully to do my part.
“It was not long until Alice, her curls bobbing and her eyes dancing with fun, came running in to see me. Straight to that cupboard door she went, and opening it, was about to reach for the sweet cake when she discovered the jar empty—empty for the first time in weeks and months!
“Looking at me out of the corner of her eye, she tapped on the jar and inquired:
“‘Any tookies at home to-day?’”
“And you?” asked one of the bystanders, eager for the rest of the incident.
“Well, I—I didn’t keep my promise to help break her of the habit that day.”
“That is a good one,” seconded another woman eagerly, “and brings to my mind a story of my boys, now grown men. In those days we lived on the farm, and my sons were just old enough to venture out into the fields alone. You know what a lark it is for boys to hunt? Well, my boys developed the instinct early. One day in spring George saw a squirrel flirt its saucy tail over in the woods, and off they were after it.
“I had not noticed their absence until I saw Charles, a toddler of four, come racing down the road and turn into the dooryard.
“‘George has broked his neck! Mama, mama, George has broked his neck, he has!’ he screamed.
“‘Tell me how,’ I demanded, my heart thumping wildly.
“‘He fell off a tree. He’s broked his neck. Come quick,’ the child gave answer.
“I needed no second bidding, but frantically started for the wood lot. Charles ran along by my side, and when we came to the fence I lifted him over first, and only then thought to ask:
“Charles, how do you know his neck is broken?
“‘Well,’ he explained, ‘you see, he climbed the tree after the squirrel, and he went out too far, and the old rotten limb it just snapped and George fell and he is hurted, and he said to run and tell you to come quick. I started and then he called and said:
“‘Charles, better say my neck is broked right off. I guess then she’ll hurry, sure!’”
“The little rascal!” laughed one of the bystanders who had listened to the tale. “I don’t believe you hurried so much after that enlightening speech, did you?”
“Well, hardly. You see,” beaming, “I wasn’t so sure that his neck was broken after that!”
“Hump!” thought Billy, disgust written on his face. “These mothers are the queerest things. They tell stories by the full hour of their children as if they had the most wonderful boy or girl in the whole world. And, after all, they prove to be just about the average—nothing so exceedingly bright about any of those stories that I can see,” and off he strolled, for he meant to make his way out of the building without further delay.
He would likely have carried out this determination, but before he had proceeded half way to the door, all his sympathies were aroused by one of the exhibited babies. For whatever other faults Billy possessed, a hard heart was not one of them, and any sign of suffering brought quick sympathy from him.
“Deary, deary me! That child must have the whooping cough! What a crying shame to bring it here. It is black in the face already, and there sits its mother doing absolutely nothing for its relief. I’m sure she doesn’t know what ails the poor baby!”
Now it happened that the Treat trio had had a long siege of the disease the winter before, and Billy knew very well what to do when a paroxysm of coughing wracked the sufferer. Had he not seen Mrs. Treat, who was usually so gentle a mother, vigorously pound her offspring on their backs? And hadn’t the boys come out as hearty as ever?
So Billy resolved to take the same measures in the present case, and thereupon he backed away, gained a start, and gathering momentum with every forward step, he hurled himself pell-mell against the child. Off it went, rolling and tumbling from its mother’s lap to the floor, emitting shrill screams, though they were more from fright than from injury.
“There! It’s recovered its breath, at any rate, and that is the main thing,” was Billy’s self-congratulatory thought, but alack and alas for the philanthropically inclined goat, punishment swift and sure followed.
Cries of alarm, a general stampede among the onlookers, and an umbrella wielded by a hearty farmer hastened Billy’s ignominious flight from the scene.
“Oh, ma li’l darlin’, ma honey chile!” crooned the mother over her wailing, rescued daughter, rocking it back and forth to comfort and quiet it, for Billy had attacked a negro baby!