Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by SHELDON & CO. in the office of Librarian of Congress, at Washington. A PROGRESSIVE BABY. LETTER III. 18 STANFIELD GARDENS, } SOUTH KENSINGTON, } May 28, 1875. } * * * * * And there you have us down to date, my Susie. The sunshine and the crisp breezes, the innocent early teas with cresses and prawns, the grand long nights full of sleep, have put us all right with the world again; but after all Brighton's only a bit of West End moved off down by the sea, and if one must live in London at all, why, it's at its best for three or four weeks to come. And we're to get off early to Switzerland this year, for fear that it mayn't be so easy next summer. For Ronayne's father is clearing away to make him stand for that dreary territory of hovels and bogs in which the paternal mansion is situate. Fancy Ronayne an M.P.! And an Irish M.P.! I fight against it--under cover. The dream of my heart is an _appartement avec tenasse_ in Paris, and in summer to turn vagrants and tramps as now. It's so unlucky Ronayne should have been the eldest son: duty, respectability, and the proprieties have such a much stronger gripe upon him, and we're born vagabonds, both. But, what must be, must. Meanwhile I console myself with my window-gardening. And you should see the house-front!--the balcony that will be a perfect bower presently. My window-boxes, the gayest mosaics of color, and the vestibule lined with callas, acacias, and heath--against a background of ferns and ivy. We were never so magnificent before, and it was Ronayne's surprise for me when we came back from the sea--he having given our florist _carte-blanche_; whereas I, bearing a conscience, have bargained with him always, and carefully counted my pots. Mrs. Malise's disciplinary Johanna brought her charge for a little visit to my nursery yesterday. And my heart aches so for that baby! He's a great child, well made, and with his mother's wonderful eyes--but so heavy, listless--"Meek as a work'us' child brought up on skilly," Ronayne renders it--and though he's perfectly clean now, and comfortably clad, nobody would dream he was a young mother's first baby, so ornamentless and sombre-hued are his little garments. Nurse brings back indignant accounts of the way he's left to amuse himself, or cry his fill, when out for an airing in Kensington Gardens. "Hours, ma'am, she keep that poor thing a-frettin' or a-sleepin' in his perambulator, the east wind a-cuttin' about him as draughty as draughty, while she sits on a bench a-makin' her foolish lace or talkin' to some of them German bandmen. He never gets taken out, nor played with, nor has any playthings. It's just cruelty to animals--that's what it is!" finishes my nursery dragon, who is as soft-hearted as she is grim of exterior and grammatically independent in speech.