 | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family |  |
MY LITTLE BOY.
PERHAPS he is in no wise different
from everybody's little boy
— I dare say he is no taller,
or thicker, or heavier, than ten
thousand other boys who have
had existence, and been the
idol of doting papas, and mammas,
and maiden aunts. He
is not an original boy in a
single particular — I don't
claim him as such; he eats
very much the same way, and
very much the same food, as
other young gentlemen of his age — sleeps the same, cries
the same, and makes up the same outrageous faces at
castor-oil. I don't care if he is n't different. But every
parent has a right, in fact he is bound, to think his boy
better than everybody's boy, by a law of nature that knows
no contravening — will admit of none. If everybody
sees in the picture I draw of my boy a sketch of his own,
let him remember it is my boy still, and not flatter himself
that he has a prodigy that knows no equal.
My boy has the glory of more than a year of months
to brag of, three of which he has devoted to taking his
steps in the initiatory of locomotion, and excels in little
warily among chairs and tables; and, though frequently
broaching to and foundering under a press of eagerness in
circumnavigating the kitchen, he invariably comes up all
right, and forgets minor adversities in the grand triumph.
My boy is a living proof of the great truth of gravitation,
as, when unlucky circumstance kicks him out of
bed or throws him from a chair, he invariably strikes the
floor; and my boy has had knocks enough on his head to
realize a faith with regard to his profundity equal to
that of Captain Cuttle in the renowned Bunsby, for the
same reason.
My boy understands the moral of a whip. Thus
young, will he wield the rod in terror over the back of
shrinking sisterhood, nor even spare maternity in his
“experimental philosophy.”
My boy knows very well how to manage it when the
slop-pail is within reach, and nothing pleases him more
than a plentiful ablution in soap-suds or greasy dishwater.
My boy delights in experimenting in hydraulics, —
now essaying to administer hydropathy by the dipperfull
to a healthy floor, now sousing stockings into the
water-bucket, and now putting the hair-brush into the
sink.
My boy fills his father's boots with incongruities that
do not belong there, and looks on gravely as the load is
shaken out, wondering, apparently, why his father don't
let it stay.
My boy watches his chance to pull a dish, or a cup,
or a saucer, — no matter which, — from the table; he
visions of sundered pairs remind his father daily of the
havoc he has made in the once respectable “service,” —
here a white and there a blue, some cracked, noseless,
handleless, stare him in the face.
My boy despises all conventional rules, and unheeds
the suasion that would limit will; republicanism speaks
through every act, independence in every look, freedom
in every motion.
My boy is very decidedly partial to an ash-hole; it is
a spot by him of all others to be craved; he glories in
an ash-hole; thereward his inclination ever points.
David of old, in his utmost woe, could n't have gone
deeper into the ashes. A stove-pan is a good substitute
for the ash-hole; there is a luxury in strewing the gritty
dust about a clean carpet, that is not to be overlooked,
and never is; there is fun in hearing it crunch beneath
the feet of his mother, and fun, too, in filling his mouth
with the fragments. I have thought, from my boy's
predisposition to pick up gravel, that he required it to
aid digestion.
My boy rejoices in a dirty face. No Mohawk chief,
in the pride of war-paint, could feel more magnificent
than my boy under an application of molasses, — or anything,
— he is not particular; and no Mohawk would
fight harder to prevent its being wiped off.
My boy takes to sugar very readily; he was very
quick in taking to this; it seemed instinctive with him.
I have heard of people's having a sweet tooth, but I
verily believe the whole of my boy's — he has but four
— are all sweet.
My boy is all-exacting in his demands, — demands
sure enough, as imperious as those of a prince; and his
brow frowns, and his little voice rings again, if his demands
are not complied with, — principally confined,
however, to the matter of victuals.
My boy is everything that is affectionate; a laugh and
kiss his morning and even sacrifice, and his bright black
eyes and rosy cheeks glowing in the sunlight of a happy
heart. His voice greets me as I come from labor, and
his arms encircle my neck in a sweet embrace, and his
cheek reposes against mine in the fulness of childish
love, and then I feel that my little boy is better than
everybody's, and I can't be made to begin to believe at
such times but that everybody must think so. In short,
as Mr. Micawber might say, my boy is a trump card in
my domestic pack.
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