THE RIFLE AND THE ROD.




CHAPTER I.

A GREAT INSTITUTION.


"It is a great institution," I said, or rather thought aloud, one
beautiful summer morning, as my wife was dressing the baby. The little
thing lay upon its face across her lap, paddling and kicking with its
little bare arms and legs, as such little people are very apt to do,
while being dressed. It was not our baby. We have dispensed with that
luxury. And yet it was a sweet little thing, and nestled as closely in
our hearts as if it were our own. It was our first grandchild, the
beginning of a third generation, so that there is small danger of our
name becoming extinct. A friend of mine, who unfortunately has no
voice for song, has a most excellent wife and beautiful baby, and
cannot therefore be said to be without music at home. It is his first
descendant, and everybody knows that such are just the things of which
fathers are very apt to be proud. He was spending an evening with a
neighbor, and was asked to sing. He declined, of course, giving as a
reason that he never sang. "Why, Mr. H----," said a black-eyed little
girl, of seven--"why, Mr. H----, don't you never sing to the baby?"
Sure enough! I wonder if there ever was a civilized, a human man, who