nd German armies in battle array, and devote my mind
entirely to complex strategical operations without having to keep one
eye on the armies and the other on the baby. Our baby was always putting
my soldiers in his mouth; and, on one occasion, he completely crippled
the Russian forces by swallowing their only general at a critical
moment. So far as toys are concerned I am sure that childhood was _not_
the happiest period of my life. The real charm of childhood, however, is
its lack of the sense of responsibility. It is the sense of
responsibility which comes with manhood that destroys the charm of life,
and makes us think of our irresponsible childhood with regret. A child
hasn't to trouble about the rent, or the butcher's bill, or of what the
world will think of it, or of the duties it owes to society, to the
family, or to itself. At the cost of a few tears or a sustained shriek
it can get almost anything it wants, and it is waited on hand and foot
at somebody else's expense. It has absolutely no responsibility beyond
being occasionally left alone in the nursery with a little brother or
sister, with instructions to see that baby doesn't fall into the fire.
This, bar the bother of having to grab the baby violently by the hair to
keep it from mischief, is ideal happiness; and I have known some
children to whom the hair grabbing was a pleasure rather than a duty. It
is the "responsibility" which comes with age which always causes us to
compare it unfavourably with childhood. In another matter, manhood
compares favourably with childhood. A man can be as naughty as he likes,
and there is nobody to whip him unless he is a garrotter. Childhood is
_not_ the happiest period for those who like to be naughty, and
naughtiness is the general idea of happiness. If it were not so
everybody would try to be good. Up to the time of going to press no
really popular movement in that direction has been discovered by Reuter
or Dalziel, or "our own correspondent."

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Miss Clo Graves thinks it an unpleasant period.]

The first thing a baby does is to howl. If that child knew that he had
got a joyous, gamesome time before him, he wouldn't. He would smile. But
one of the most endearing characteristics of childhood is its candour,
and the baby knows that croup lies waiting round the corner to seize him
by the throat, that thrush lurks in the imperfectly-washed
feeding-bottle, that wind-spasms