Has it ever occurred to you, my friend, that the baby is the same unchanged, unimproved article since the world began? Men are making smokeless powder, constructing pneumatic bicycle tires, inventing long-distance guns, training horses down to two minutes, getting sprinters to cover 100 yards close to nine seconds--revolutionizing everything, but leaving the baby the old-time brand! People seem satisfied with the original make, and far from any movement to abolish it as out of date. The sentiment would appear to be pretty universal: Drear were the world without a child, Where happy infant never smiled. We sooner could the flowerets spare, The tender bud and blossom fair, Or breath of spring time in the air. I have said “bye-bye” to my tiny Ted half a dozen times and at last am about to escape during his sudden flight to another part of the house, when I am arrested by the eager cry, half in inquiry, half in jubilation, “Baby barlo! Papa, baby barlo! Dee!” There he stands, holding up my little patent flask as though he had made a wonderful discovery. To humor the child I took the little companion, said “Ta-ta,” and was in the act of slipping it back to my wife, when I decided to keep it. I am not partial to the cup that cheers and also inebriates, and yet I have an appreciation of the pocket pistol that warms, sustains and heartens in a long tramp on a zero afternoon with only a dog for companionship and the chances of bagging anything much reduced to a minimum. I stepped to the sideboard and filled the “barlo” _quantum suff_. “Ah, Scrib! You're early on deck” was the grunting of the Doc. “None of the others are here yet. But I guess we'll not have long to wait. There is surely no laggard or lunkhead in our jolly sextette. On such an occasion as a Christmas Eve hunt, with an oyster supper at stake, the resources of our whole happy hunting grounds on trial, and the pluck and prowess of six rival sports in question there should certainly be no such word as 'funk!”' Even as the Doc spoke Tinker dropped in. Hardly was he seated when Shy puffed his way into the little smoking room. We waited five minutes for the Judge, and had become impatient before Budge put in an appearance. What an assortment of unique nomenclature! Gun-club designations they were, of course. In polite society “Scrib” was the village editor; “Tinker” was our general store keeper; “The Judge” was young Lawyer B------; “Budge” was mine host of the Queen's Arms, and the “Doc” was just the doctor--our large-hearted, clever, hard-working local M. D., the life and soul of the sport-loving community, as he was also the idol of the village and district for his skill, his unselfishness and his unvarying _bonhomie_. “Budge!” exclaims the Doc. “As president of this club I fine you----”