People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 December 1894 — A BABY’S SOLILOQUY. [ARTICLE]

A BABY’S SOLILOQUY.

Practical TlionKlits of a Two-Day-Old Bit of Humanity. I am here. And if this is what they call the world I don’t tnink much of it. It’s a very flannsily world and smells of paregoric awfully. It’s a dreadful light world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. And I don’t know what to do with my hands; I think I’ll dig my fists in my ears. No, I won’t. I’ll scrabble at the corner of my blanket and chew it up, and then I’ll holler; whatever happens, I’ll holler. And the more paregoric they give me the londer I’ll yell. That old nurse puts the spoon in the corner of my mouth in a very uneasy way and keeps tasting my milk herself all the while j She spilt snuff in it last might, and when I hollered trotted me. That came of being a two-day-old baby. There’s a pin sticking in me now, and if I say a word about it I’ll be trotted or fed, and I would rather have catnip tea. i’ll tell you who I am. I found out to day. I h.eard folks say: “Husht don’t wake up Emeline’s baby,” and I suppose that pretty white-faced woman is Emeline. No, I was mistaken; for a chap was in here just now and wanted to see Bob’s baby, and looked at me and said I was “a funny little toad, and looked just lika Bob.” He smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I belong to. Yes, there’s another one —that’s “Gamma.” “It was Gamma’s baby, so it was.” I declare, I do not know who I belong to, but I’ll holler, and maybe I’ll find out. There comes Snuffy with catnip tea. I’m going to sleep. I won«W why my hands won’t go where I want them to. —Self Culture.