children grow up, get married, leave home--or die--and that is just
what we are trying to guard against. On my seventy-fifth birthday,
there will be a fine, healthy two-year-old babe crying and goo-gooing
for my especial benefit, and by working backwards in your figuring you
can also credit us with a three-year-old, a four-year-old, and so on
up the line. Naturally we will have lost a goodly number of the first-
comers, but we provide against a deficit, so to speak, by this little
plan of ours. Some of the girls may not turn out as well as we expect,
however, so there is the possibility that they may remain with us to
the end, enjoying single-blessedness. The boys, of course, will
marry."

"It is splendid, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders enthusiastically. "You are
a wonder."

"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Bingle, with a deprecatory
gesture. "I'm a selfish, conniving old rascal, that's what I am. We've
always wanted children, Mrs. Bingle and I, and we never--er--never
seemed to have 'em as other people do, so we began to look for
children that needed parents as much as we needed children. That's the
whole thing in a nut-shell. We are a bit high-handed about it, too. We
never have a child until it is past the teething age and can walk a
little bit and talk a little bit. So, you see, we manage to have 'em
without the drawbacks. That's where we are selfish and--"

"I think you're quite sensible about it, Mr. Bingle," interrupted
Flanders politely." They say teething is awful."

"That's what they say," said Mr. Bingle, a slight frown of regret on
his brow. "Still, I should have preferred--ahem! Yes, yes! Most