There! At last she is quiet again. I was getting tired of it all. It was such a monotonous, ugly screaming. Did you expect to find it _beautiful_, then? [_The Old Women chuckle._] Hush! Is _He_ here? I do not know. I believe He is. He does not approve of laughter. They say He laughs Himself at times. Who knows? It is mere gossip. They tell so many strange stories about Him. Anyway, He might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us. [_The Old Women chuckle again._] What I want to know is--Will the baby be a boy or a girl? Yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with. I hope it may die before birth. How kind of you! Not more so than of you. And _I_ trust it may grow up to be a general. [_The Old Women chuckle again._] Some of you are very merry now. I do not quite like it. And _I_ do not quite like your looking so gloomy. No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Every one must be either merry or gloomy; so let each be what she pleases. [_There is a pause_.] _Babies_ are merry enough things, if you like. Yes, and spoilt too. And troublesome as well. I cannot abide them. As soon as ever they are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. Even before they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for them. Then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to have their little red backs patted. For my part, I like them best when they are dying. Then they grow less clamorous--they just stretch themselves out, and require rocking to sleep no more. But they are such _playful_ little dears! How I love to wash them just after they are born! And _I_ to wash them just after they are dead! No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Each to her own taste. One loves to wash them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead. That is all about it. But what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they want? It does not seem to me the proper thing. They think nothing at all about it. 'Tis their stomach which does the asking. But 'tis _they_ who do the actual asking, is it not? Perhaps so; but they do not always get. [_The Old Women chuckle again. Presently the screams recommence behind the scenes._] There! She is screaming again! 'Tis a strange 'fact, but animals seem to have easier young-bearing than women do. Yes, and easier dying too--and easier living, into the bargain. You should see how sleek and contented my cat is! The same with my dog. Every day I say to him, '_Your_ turn too will come to die,' but he only grins at me, and goes on wagging his tail as merrily as ever. Ah, but they are only animals. Well, and what else are women? [_Again the Old Women chuckle._]