thers finally persuaded even her
optimistic young heart that the two chicks which had been bequeathed
to her were dishearteningly masculine in their tendencies, she
officially re-christened the apostate "Elaine" and "Rowena," and
thereafter solemnly accepted them as "Archie" and "Albert." And while
speaking of this mysteriously ramifying factor of sex, I am compelled
to acknowledge that I encountered a rather disturbing little
back-flare of Freudian hell-fire only a couple of evenings ago. It
took my thoughts galloping back to the time in our post-nuptial era
when Dinky-Dunk went Berserker and chased me around the haystacks with
my hair flying. I'd taken Dinkie upon my lap, and, without quite
knowing it, sat stroking his frowsy young head. My thoughts, in fact,
were a thousand miles away. Then, still without giving much attention
to what I was doing, I squeezed that warm little body up close against
my own. I was astounded, the next moment, to see my small offspring
turn on me with all the lusty fierceness of the cave man. He got his
arms about me and buried his face in my neck and kissed me as no
gentleman, big or little, should ever kiss a lady. His small body was
shaken with a subliminal and quite unexpected gust of feeling, just
as I've seen a June-time garden shaken by an unexpected gust of wind.
It passed away, of course, about as quickly as it came--but with it
went a scattering of the white petals of childhood unconcern.

I don't suppose my poor little Dinkie has yet awakened to the fact
that his body is a worn river-bed down which must race the freshets of
far-off racial instincts. But the thing disturbed me more than I'd be
willing to admit. There are murky corridors in the house of life. They
stand there, and they must be faced. There are rooms where the air
must be kept stirring, corners into which the clear sanity of sunlight
must be thrown. Dinkie, since he has stepped into his first experience
in the keeping of rabbits, has been asking me a number of rather
disconcerting questions. His father, I notice, has the habit of
half-diffidently referring the boy to me, just as I nursed the earlier
habit of referring him to his father. But some time soon Dinkie and I
will have to have a serious talk about this thing called Life, this
Life which is so much more uncompromisingly brutal than the child-mind
can conceive....

By the way, there's a lot of nonsense talked about motherhood
softening women. It may soften