There is a picture—not one of Mr. Birch’s—which I think will always remain with me. It is ten years since I saw it, but I see it still. It is the quaint one of a good-looking, stout, colored woman climbing slowly up a back staircase with a sturdy little fellow on her back, his legs astride her spacious waist, his arms clasped round her neck, his lovely mop of yellow hair tumbling over her shoulder, upon which his cheek affectionately and comfortably rests. It does not come within the province of cooks to toil up-stairs with little boys on their backs, especially when the little boys have stout little legs of their own, and are old enough to wear Jersey suits and warlike scarfs of red, but in this case the carrying up-stairs was an agreeable ceremony, partly jocular and wholly affectionate, engaged in by two confidants, and the bearer enjoyed it as much as did her luxurious burden. “We’re friends, you know,” he used to say. “Carrie’s my friend, and Dan’s my friend. Carrie’s such a kind cook, and Dan’s such a nice waiter.” That was the whole situation in a nutshell. They were his friends, and they formed together a mutual admiration society. His conversation with them we knew was enriched by gems of valuable and entertaining information. Among his charms was his desire to acquire information, and the amiable readiness with which he imparted it to his acquaintances. We gathered that while assisting in the making of pudding he was lavish in the bestowal of useful knowledge. Intimate association and converse with him had revealed to his mamma that there was no historical, geographical, or scientific fact which might not be impressed upon him in story form, and fill him with rapture. Monsoons and typhoons, and the crossing of the Great Desert on camels, he found absorbing; the adventures of Romulus and Remus, and their good wolf, and the founding of Rome, held him spellbound. He found the vestal virgins and their task of keeping up the sacred fires in the temple sufficiently interesting to be made into a species of dramatic entertainment during his third year. It was his habit to creep out of his crib very early in the morning, and entertain himself agreeably in the nursery until other people got up. One morning his mamma, lying in her room, which opened into the nursery, heard a suspicious sound of unlawful poking at the fire. “Vivvie,” she said, “is that you?” The poking ceased, but there was no reply. Silence reigned for a few moments, and then the sound was heard again. “Vivian,” said his anxious parent, “you are not allowed to touch the fire.” Small, soft feet came pattering hurriedly into the room; round the footboard of the bed a ruffled head and seriously expostulatory little countenance appeared. “Don’t you know,” he said, with an air of lenient remonstrance, “don’t you _know_ I’s a westal wirgin?”