e of
an evening-party, who its father was!

Everybody loves the stage child. They catch it up in their bosoms every
other minute and weep over it. They take it in turns to do this.

Nobody--on the stage, we mean--ever has enough of the stage child.
Nobody ever tells the stage child to "shut up" or to "get out of this."
Nobody ever clumps the stage child over the head.

When the real child goes to the theater it must notice these things and
wish it were a stage child.

The stage child is much admired by the audience. Its pathos makes them
weep; its tragedy thrills them; its declamation--as for instance when it
takes the center of the stage and says it will kill the wicked man, and
the police, and everybody who hurts its mar--stirs them like a trumpet
note; and its light comedy is generally held to be the most truly
humorous thing in the whole range of dramatic art.

But there are some people so strangely constituted that they do not
appreciate the stage child; they do not comprehend its uses; they do not
understand its beauties. We should not be angry with them. We should the
rather pity them.

We ourselves had a friend once who suffered from this misfortune. He was
a married man, and Providence had been very gracious, very good to him:
he had been blessed with eleven children, and they were all growing up
well and strong.

The "baby" was eleven weeks old, and then came the twins, who were
getting on for fifteen months and were cutting their double teeth
nicely. The youngest girl was three; there were five boys aged seven,
eight, nine, ten, and twelve respectively--good enough lads, but--well,
there, boys will be boys, you know; we were just the same ourselves when
we were young. The two eldest were both very pleasant girls, as their
mother said; the only pity was that they would quarrel so with each
other.

We never knew a healthier set of boys and girls. They were so full of
energy and dash.

Our friend was very much out of sorts one evening when we called on him.
It was holiday-time and wet weather. He had been at home all day, and so
had all the children. He was telling his wife when we entered the room
that if the holidays were to last much longer and those twins did not
hurry up and get their teeth quickly, he should have to go away and join
the County Council. He could not stand the racket.

His wife said she could not see what he had to complain of. She was sure
better-hearted children no man could h