off my father wrote and apologised.
Babies hate fussiness. But who realises that? Every morning it is, “How
has he slept, nurse?” “How is his little inside, nurse?” “How is his
precious outside, nurse?” “Has that mark where the cat scratched him
gone, nurse?” “Did I hear him crying at half-past four, nurse?” “Isn’t
he strangely silent this morning and puffy under the eyes, nurse?” and
so forth, and so forth. I often wonder why my nurse hangs on at all.
My nursemaid asked her the same question once, when she and my mother
had differed about some little matter involving magnesia; and the nurse
explained that she stopped for two reasons: because she got thirty
pounds a year for doing so, and because she felt it would be next
thing to murder to leave me until my mother knew her business. But,
mind you, I want to be just to both my parents. My mamma can sing me
to sleep with considerable skill; my papa can pick me up and fling me
towards the ceiling with a nerve and strength that causes me infinite
gratification when I am in the vein. But even upon a simple thing like
that he exercises no discretion. There are occasional times when a chap
doesn’t care to be flung up to the ceiling. How would he like it, for
instance, the next moment after he had drunk his bottle, or whatever
might be the equivalent with him? Then my mother will interfere with
the temperature of my bath. She has a conviction, amounting to mania,
that some day I shall be boiled alive or scalded to death. Her idea
seems to be that I should sit quietly and patiently while this painful
operation was being performed, and suffer nobody to hear anything
of it until I was cooked to a turn. The result of her alarm is that
I rarely get my dip at a tidy temperature, though everybody likes a
real hot bath now and again. Thank Heaven, they will grow older, these
parents of mine. With years must surely come experience and wisdom and
patience. At present--and I say it without the least animus--I would
not give a broken rattle for the united knowledge of the pair of them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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