One light hair mattress goes into the hammock part with a nice piece of blanket, and then, instead of the universal mackintosh sheet, we always have a thick piece of what country people call ‘blanket sheeting’; it is not a blanket nor yet a sheet, but something between the two, and invaluable for nursery use, as it can be washed daily--of course three or four pieces should be in use--and is quite as useful as mackintosh without being in the least bit unhealthy. Small pillows, very soft, and shaped in to the neck, are sold with the berceaunettes, and these should be provided with very fine cotton pillow-cases, edged with a tiny cambric frill--linen is too cold--and the cotton, if fine enough, gives no chill, and yet does not scrub the tender skin; the sheet should be for appearance only at first, and should be simply a piece of cotton or longcloth frilled, and tacked on the blanket, and folded over to look nice, but only, as I said before, for appearance’ sake, for the warmth of the blankets is most important for the infant, and should be supplemented by a miniature eider-down quilt in a washing cover of figured cambric edged with torchon, and, if fancied, embellished in its turn with some pretty bows. Another thing: though I would always have an infant kept as quiet as possible, utterly and strenuously forbidding long railway journeys, much changing of nurseries, much seeing of company, I yet do say that to some noises the baby must be early accustomed. I have been in young married people’s households where the magic words, ‘Oh, if you please, mum, nurse says baby is asleep, have brought about a state of things that reminds one of the Sleeping Beauty’s palace. The canary bird is hustled under an antimacassar, the piano is closed, and conversation is carried on in whispers, until a shrill cry sets us free from bondage and the spell is removed. In such a household Edwin’s song has been brought to an abrupt conclusion, his cheery whistle announcing his home-coming received with chill reprimand, and we have gone about the passages on tiptoe, echoing in our souls Edwin’s hasty but understandable mutter of ‘Confound baby!’ which is a sentiment which should be on no one’s lips for one moment, of course.