man, and the police, and everybody who hurts its mar--stirs them like
a trumpet note; and its light comedy is generally held to be the most
truly humorous thing in the whole range of dramatic art.

But there are some people so strangely constituted that they do not
appreciate the stage child; they do not comprehend its uses; they do
not understand its beauties. We should not be angry with them. We
should the rather pity them.

We ourselves had a friend once who suffered from this misfortune. He
was a married man, and Providence had been very gracious, very good to
him: he had been blessed with eleven children, and they were all
growing up well and strong.

The "baby" was eleven weeks old, and then came the twins, who were
getting on for fifteen months and were cutting their double teeth
nicely. The youngest girl was three; there were five boys aged seven,
eight, nine, ten, and twelve respectively--good enough lads,
but--well, there, boys will be boys, you know; we were just the same
ourselves when we were young. The two eldest were both very pleasant
girls, as their mother said; the only pity was that they would quarrel
so with each other.

We never knew a healthier set of boys and girls. They were so full of
energy and dash.

Our friend was very much out of sorts one evening when we called on
him. It was holiday-time and wet weather. He had been at home all
day, and so had all the children. He was telling his wife when we
entered the room that if the holidays were to last much longer and