The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1872-06-22
The Baby Breechsa.

" Il
know OF. There were babies enough
before. When, as breakfast was near its
close, Harry was heard humping slowly
down the stairs, pit-pit, pit-pntterinR
through the perlors and the library, and
presenting himself at the dining-room
door, in fresh white frock and radiant
iace, emitting angelic war-whoops OF de-
light, the old house seemed full of babies.
And when he rushed around the room
with liked eyes, bent head, and shoul-
ders thrust forward in frenzied eagerness
for chair. and when he hT d made good
his divine right to q seat at the table by
pushing his chair headlong into place
regardless OF what broad cloth or ruffles
might lnterpose; when he had painfully
climbed up into the adult chair, and had
brought his precious nose very nearly to
level with the table-with what serene
delight, with what entire self.approbn-
ton and world-satisfaction did he gaze
around upon us, his aspiring, ambitious,
unsatisfied eldersl With what sweet
frankness he poked his sudden fingers
into the peach preserved With what
sublime abstraction did he upset all the
cups and saucers, in his endeayor to
reach the orangesl What small thing
1t seemed to him, in fashee of adven-
turousness, to rise up in his chair, climb
up on the table, and creep along to the
otherwise nnattainable sugar bowl; and
when blind and unreasonable preju-
dice lnterfered with this, his simple and
honorable ambition, what hearty howls
attested to his keen sense Of right to
life, liberty, and the pursuit of sugar,
until some true friend, more open to
conviction than his bigoted progenitors,
nC,I h.
stored the equilibrium to the universe!
Certainly Harry was the baby though
to satisfy reasonable mind. His ieno-
rance was of the most approved pattern.
and penetrated every fastness in the
whole province of knowledge. He not
only, like Sir Thomas Moore, did not
know Greek at three years of age, but
he was very imperfectly acquainted with
English. He had never 80 much as
heard whether there be any alphabet.
He knew how to tumble all the collars.
ribbons and trinkets out of the upper
drawer into a kaleidoscope confusion.
He could toss Billy, the fireman, toward
the ceiling In such eccentric orbits that
he would be sure to strike against the
vase and upset the flowers on his way
down. But OF any useful knowledge.
or OF any knowledge that promised to be
usefnl-he was destitute to degree that
would have charmed the heart of the
most devoted believer in vital statistics.
But another king arose who know not
Joseph Another baby must needs come
peeping and prying into the world, and
Baby Harry must abdicate. The badges
OF his royalty must 60. All his little
cambria hounoes. all his lovely silken.
stitched flannel petticoats, the folds and
tucks, and ruffles and ribbons, of his in
fantile grace-the insignia of his inno-
cence, the vestiges of his Heavenly Gre.
ation-were to be ruthlessly rent away,
and he was to make his debut in the
straight lines and plane surfaces, and
monotonous hues and unmitigated bifur.
cations of the unbeautiful sex. the sex
which is not lovely in itself, and which
borrows no loveliness from its dress; for
even the most thorough advocate of the
equality of the sexes must admit that the
handsome man is but a rough and primi.
tive creation compared with the hand
some woman, and that while the plnin
woman, by correct combinations of color
and outline, can at least reduce her plain
ness to it's lowest terms, and sometimes
combine it altogether out of sight, the
plain man has nothing for it but to put
on his hat and coat and fight it out on
that line.
Of course we all know that Harry
must come to it in time; but why array
him prematnreIy in the sombre garments
of manhood? Why put his awful baby
Ignorance and innocence in such gro.
tesque contrast with his manly garb? It
is only for his brief blossoming that he
can have the beauty of drapery. Once
out of it, he returns, he returns, he re-
turns no more. Once robbed of his
cambrics and muslins, and there remains
for him through life nothing but a dreary
waste of trowsers-a pitiless stretch of
dun broadcloth scarcely frightened, GER
tainly not relieved, by the stiffness of
starched and uncompromising linen.
The time may come in the flood-tide of
youth and love when he will put a bou-
quetin his button-hole. In his famished
craving for color he may possibly indulge
q blue-bordered handkerchief; but not
for him the broad expanses of lustrous
hues; never for him the rainbow tipts,
the sunset blendings, wherein his sister
may luxuriate. 1t is only the short,
sweet morning of his babyhood that can
be tricked out in curve and color, in
feathers and flowers, and all fantastic
finery.