 | The fiend's delight |  |
Johnny.
Johnny is a little four-year-old, of bright,
pleasant manners, and remarkable for intelligence.
The other evening his mother took him upon her
lap, and after stroking his curly head awhile, asked
him if he knew who made him. I grieve to state
that instead of answering “Dod,” as might have
face full of ginger-bread, and finally took a fit of
coughing that threatened the dissolution of his
frame. Having unloaded his throat and whacked
him on the back, his mother propounded the following
supplementary conundrum:
“Johnny, are you not aware that at your age
every little boy is expected to say something brilliant
in reply to my former question? How can you so
dishonour your parents as to neglect this golden
opportunity? Think again.”
The little urchin cast his eyes upon the floor and
meditated a long time. Suddenly he raised his face
and began to move his lips. There is no knowing
what he might have said, but at that moment his
mother noted the pressing necessity of wringing and
mopping his nose, which she performed with such
painful and conscientious singleness of purpose that
Johnny set up a war-whoop like that of a night-blooming
tomcat.
It may be objected that this little tale is neither
instructive nor amusing. I have never seen any
stories of bright children that were.
| The fiend's delight | |