As for the propagation of Geese—I give myself no concern—Nature is all-bountiful—I shall never want tools to work with. —So then, friend! you have got my father and my uncle _Toby_ off the stairs, and seen them to bed?——And how did you manage it?——You dropp’d a curtain at the stair-foot—I thought you had no other way for it——Here’s a crown for your trouble. [14] According to the preceding Editions. C H A P. XLIX —THEN reach me my breeches off the chair, said my father to _Susannah._—There is not a moment’s time to dress you, Sir, cried _Susannah_—the child is as black in the face as my——As your what? said my father, for like all orators, he was a dear searcher into comparisons.—Bless, me, Sir, said _Susannah_, the child’s in a fit.—And where’s Mr. _Yorick?_—Never where he should be, said _Susannah_, but his curate’s in the dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, waiting for the name—and my mistress bid me run as fast as I could to know, as captain _Shandy_ is the godfather, whether it should not be called after him. Were one sure, said my father to himself, scratching his eye-brow, that the child was expiring, one might as well compliment my brother _Toby_ as not—and it would be a pity, in such a case, to throw away so great a name as _Trismegistus_ upon him——but he may recover. No, no,——said my father to _Susannah_, I’ll get up——There is no time, cried _Susannah_, the child’s as black as my shoe. _Trismegistus_, said my father——But stay—thou art a leaky vessel, _Susannah_, added my father; canst thou carry _Trismegistus_ in thy head, the length of the gallery without scattering?——Can I? cried _Susannah_, shutting the door in a huff.——If she can, I’ll be shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in the dark, and groping for his breeches. _Susannah_ ran with all speed along the gallery. My father made all possible speed to find his breeches. _Susannah_ got the start, and kept it—’Tis _Tris_—something, cried _Susannah_—There is no christian-name in the world, said the curate, beginning with _Tris_—but _Tristram._ Then ’tis _Tristram-gistus_, quoth _Susannah._ ——There is no _gistus_ to it, noodle!—’tis my own name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he spoke, into the bason—_Tristram!_ said he, &c. &c. &c. &c.—so _Tristram_ was I called, and _Tristram_ shall I be to the day of my death. My father followed _Susannah_, with his night-gown across his arm, with nothing more than his breeches on, fastened through haste with but a single button, and that button through haste thrust only half into the button-hole.