“Oh, I came this afternoon, and stopped at the farm house,” answered cousin Tom, or Mr. Thomas Wharton, for it is time he should be introduced by his true name to the reader. “And after it was dusk I slipped over here, and went round to uncle’s study door while you were at tea. I sent word by Aunt Fanny that you might expect Santa Claus to-night.” And now began a game of romps, which lasted for an hour or more, and then little bodies began to be stumbled over, and were found under tables, and on sofas fast asleep, and were taken off to bed. Mrs. Ellison’s baby being roused by the noise, had awaked, and persisted in keeping awake, and his mother came back to the parlor bringing him in her arms, with his night-gown on, and his cheeks as red as roses. “Isn’t he a splendid fellow?” said she, holding him up before cousin Tom. “A very comfortable looking piece of flesh certainly,” he answered; “but then they are all alike. I think you might divide all babies into two class, the fat and the lean; otherwise, there is no difference in them that I can see.” “Pshaw, how ridiculously you talk; there is a great deal more difference between two babies, than between you and all the other young dandies who walk Broadway. They are all alike, the same cut of the coat and collar, and whiskers; the same tie of the neck-cloth, and shape of the boot: when you have seen one, you have seen all. But now just take a good look at this magnificent baby, and confess; wouldn’t you like to kiss him?” “Excuse me, my dear aunty, but that is a thing I haven’t been left to do very often. I’ve no fancy for having my cheeks and whiskers converted into spitoons. It is really astonishing now,” continued cousin Tom, “what fools such a brat as that will make of very sensible people.” “Are your allusions personal, sir?” asked Mrs. Ellison, laughing. “No, not just now; but I was thinking of a man in our place, who used to be really a _very_ sensible fellow; and though quite an old bachelor, he was the life of every party he attended, and more of a favorite than most of the young men. Well, when he was about fifty years old he got married, and he’s got a young one now about two years old. And what kind of an exhibition do you suppose that man made of himself the other day. Why, this refractory young individual couldn’t be persuaded to walk towards home in any other way, when they had him out for an airing, and what does this old friend of mine do, but allow a handkerchief to be pinned to his coat-tail, and go prancing along the street like a horse for the spoiled brat to drive. The calf! I declare, before I’d make such a fool of myself as that, I’d eat my head! What are you writing there, uncle?” “Only taking notes of these remarks, Tom,” answered Mr. Wharton, “for your benefit on some future occasion.”