“Do you know, doctor, that the most philosophic _bon mot_ ever perpetrated, and the one which seems most appropriate to my case, is that facetious description which somebody gave of the mule. He said, if I remember correctly, that the mule was an animal which had no ‘pride of paternity and no hope of posterity’.” “And yet,” I replied, “the mule is not the happiest and most placid animal in the world. The clam is his superior in many respects.” “Yes, and there are many human clams. I fancy, however, that you do not envy them, doctor.” “Well, I am not so sure about that, my dear young friend. The higher emotions and more refined sensibilities are the foundation of most of the sorrows of life.” “But what of the pleasures, doctor?” “True, I had forgotten them,” I replied. * * * * * We sat for some time, young Smith and I, silently gazing into the fireplace. My cigar having gone out, I relighted it and began puffing vigorously, with the result of blowing some dense clouds of smoke in the direction of my visitor. A sharp cough, followed by a decided sputter, reminded me of my unintentional discourtesy. “Pardon me, my boy, but I forgot that you are not used to tobacco.” The wise child smiled, and with a humorous twinkle in his bright eyes replied: “Well, doctor, you haven’t given me much opportunity to become inured to it this evening--save by proxy, and there are some things that cannot be done by proxy with any degree of satisfaction.” “Good heavens, boy! You don’t mean to say that you smoke?” “Don’t I, though? Just try me and see.” Amazed though I was, I politely extended my cigar case. With the air of a _connoisseur_, my visitor selected one, bit off the end, and, taking my proffered match, lighted the weed and began smoking, with all the _sang froid_ of an old timer. “By Jove! doctor, you don’t smoke drugstore cigars, I see.” “N--no,” I said, “I get the best there is in the market,” meanwhile mentally apologizing to my friend K----, the pharmacist who had given me the box from which that very cigar was taken. “Do you know, doctor, I haven’t enjoyed a smoke for ages. I used to ‘hit the pipe,’ as you now express it, when I was on earth before. But then,” he sighed, “opium was opium in those days.” “And pray, what is it nowadays?” I asked. “Soothing syrup, b’gosh! And I don’t like it a little bit, though I’ve swallowed a barrel of it. “Which reminds me that you doctors don’t know much about colicky babies,” said my visitor. “N--no--I don’t suppose we do know a great deal about infantile colic--save by its works--drat it!” “And its music,” said young Smith, chuckling audibly, as a prolonged, painful, quavering wail was wafted in at the window from a house across the street.