"See those hands?" said the Observer, holding up two "bunches of
fives," whose digits were stained near the ends with some dark brown
substance, "that's pyrogallic acid--and that burn near my thumb was
made by Blitz Pulver. It wouldn't take a Sherlock Holmes to discover
that I had the camera craze, would it?

"The other day I went into a photographic supply house to look at some
of their cameras and the clerk sold me one of the kind that 'a child
can operate.' He didn't say where the child was to be found, but I
have since concluded that it must be a very remarkable specimen of the
infant prodigy, and is probably touring the country as a dime museum
attraction on the strength of its wonderful abilities.

[Illustration: Poor B. is kicked by a calf.]

"I took the camera home with me and carefully assimilated the printed
instructions which accompanied it, fixed up a dark room in the
woodshed and then sauntered proudly back with my machine under my arm
to photograph the baby.

"Now, I've always prided myself on the genial good nature of my
infant. He hardly ever cries or kicks the covers off, or becomes
afflicted with colic about 3 A.M. The butcher says he takes after me,
though my wife won't acknowledge this, notwithstanding the fact that
the butcher has six of his own and ought to know. Well, the moment
I came in, that kid, instead of rolling his eyes and saying,
'a-goo-goo,' which means 'papa,' as everyone knows, set up a regular
Comanche howl and threw his rattle at me. When I took him in my arms
and tried to quiet him, he clawed at my eyes, kicked a pocketful of
cigars to pieces and bellowed so vociferously that I gave him back to