The superior nerve of women in all matters connected with love, from
the casting of the first sheep's-eye down to the end of the honeymoon,

is too well acknowledged to need comment. Nor is the example a fair
one to cite in the present instance, the positions not being equally

balanced. Love is woman's business, and in "business" we all lay
aside our natural weaknesses--the shyest man I ever knew was a

photographic tout.
ON BABIES.

Oh, yes, I do--I know a lot about 'em. I was one myself once, though
not long--not so long as my clothes. They were very long, I

recollect, and always in my way when I wanted to kick. Why do babies
have such yards of unnecessary clothing? It is not a riddle. I

really want to know. I never could understand it. Is it that the
parents are ashamed of the size of the child and wish to make believe

that it is longer than it actually is? I asked a nurse once why it
was. She said:

"Lor', sir, they always have long clothes, bless their little hearts."
And when I explained that her answer, although doing credit to her

feelings, hardly disposed of my difficulty, she replied:
"Lor', sir, you wouldn't have 'em in short clothes, poor little

dears?" And she said it in a tone that seemed to imply I had
suggested some unmanly outrage.

Since than I have felt shy at making inquiries on the subject, and the
reason--if reason there be--is still a mystery to me. But indeed,

putting them in any clothes at all seems absurd to my mind. Goodness
knows there is enough of dressing and undressing to be gone through in

life without beginning it before we need; and one would think that
people who live in bed might at all events be spared the torture. Why

wake the poor little wretches up in the morning to take one lot of
clothes off, fix another lot on, and put them to bed again, and then

at night haul them out once more, merely to change everything back?
And when all is done, what difference is there, I should like to know,

between a baby's night-shirt and the thing it wears in the day-time?
Very likely, however, I am only making myself ridiculous--I often do,

so I am informed--and I will therefore say no more upon this matter of
clothes, except only that it would be of great convenience if some

fashion were adopted enabling you to tell a boy from a girl.
At present it is most awkward. Neither hair, dress, nor conversation

affords the slightest clew, and you are left to guess. By some
mysterious law of nature you invariably guess wrong, and are thereupon

regarded by all the relatives and friends as a mixture of fool and
knave, the enormity of alluding to a male babe as "she" being only

equaled by the atrocity of referring to a femaleinfant as "he".
Whichever sex the particular child in question happens not to belong

to is considered as beneath contempt, and any mention of it is taken
as a personal insult to the family.

And as you value your fair name do not attempt to get out of the
difficulty by talking of "it."

There are various methods by which you may achieve ignominy and shame.
By murdering a large and respected family in cold blood and afterward

depositing their bodies in the water companies' reservoir, you will
gain much unpopularity in the neighborhood of your crime, and even

robbing a church will get you cordiallydisliked, especially by the
vicar. But if you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of

scorn and hatred that a fellow human creature can pour out for you,
let a young mother hear you call dear baby "it."

Your best plan is to address the article as "little angel." The noun
"angel" being of common gender suits the case admirably, and the

epithet is sure of being favorably received. "Pet" or "beauty" are
useful for variety's sake, but "angel" is the term that brings you the

greatest credit for sense and good-feeling. The word should be
preceded by a short giggle and accompanied by as much smile as

possible. And whatever you do, don't forget to say that the child has
got its father's nose. This "fetches" the parents (if I may be

allowed a vulgarism) more than anything. They will pretend to laugh
at the idea at first and will say, "Oh, nonsense!" You must then get

excited and insist that it is a fact. You need have no conscientious
scruples on the subject, because the thing's nose really does resemble

its father's--at all events quite as much as it does anything else in
nature--being, as it is, a mere smudge.

Do not despise these hints, my friends. There may come a time when,
with mamma on one side and grand mamma on the other, a group of

admiring young ladies (not admiring you, though) behind, and a
bald-headed dab of humanity in front, you will be extremely thankful

for some idea of what to say. A man--an unmarried man, that is--is
never seen to such disadvantage as when undergoing the ordeal of

"seeing baby." A cold shudder runs down his back at the bare
proposal, and the sickly smile with which he says how delighted he

shall be ought surely to move even a mother's heart, unless, as I am
inclined to believe, the whole proceeding is a mere device adopted by

wives to discourage the visits of bachelor friends.
It is a cruel trick, though, whatever its excuse may be. The bell is

rung and somebody sent to tell nurse to bring baby down. This is the
signal for all the females present to commence talking "baby," during

which time you are left to your own sad thoughts and the speculations
upon the practicability of suddenly recollecting an important

engagement, and the likelihood of your being believed if you do. Just
when you have concocted an absurdly implausible tale about a man

outside, the door opens, and a tall, severe-looking woman enters,
carrying what at first sight appears to be a particularly skinny

bolster, with the feathers all at one end. Instinct, however, tells
you that this is the baby, and you rise with a miserable attempt at

appearing eager. When the first gush of feminineenthusiasm with
which the object in question is received has died out, and the number

of ladies talking at once has been reduced to the ordinary four or
five, the circle of fluttering petticoats divides, and room is made

for you to step forward. This you do with much the same air that you
would walk into the dock at Bow Street, and then, feeling unutterably

miserable, you stand solemnly staring at the child. There is dead
silence, and you know that every one is waiting for you to speak. You

try to think of something to say, but find, to your horror, that your
reasoning faculties have left you. It is a moment of despair, and

your evil genius, seizing the opportunity, suggests to you some of the
most idiotic remarks that it is possible for a human being to

perpetrate. Glancing round with an imbecile smile, you sniggeringly
observe that "it hasn't got much hair has it?" Nobody answers you for

a minute, but at last the stately nurse says with much gravity:
"It is not customary for children five weeks old to have long hair."

Another silence follows this, and you feel you are being given a
second chance, which you avail yourself of by inquiring if it can walk

yet, or what they feed it on.
By this time you have got to be regarded as not quite right in your

head, and pity is the only thing felt for you. The nurse, however, is
determined that, insane or not, there shall be no shirking and that

you shall go through your task to the end. In the tones of a high
priestess directing some religious mystery she says, holding the

bundle toward you:
"Take her in your arms, sir." You are too crushed to offer any

resistance and so meekly accept the burden. "Put your arm more down
her middle, sir," says the high-priestess, and then all step back and

watch you intently as though you were going to do a trick with it.
What to do you know no more than you did what to say. It is certain

something must be done, and the only thing that occurs to you is to
heave the unhappyinfant up and down to the accompaniment of

"oopsee-daisy," or some remark of equal intelligence. "I wouldn't jig
her, sir, if I were you," says the nurse; "a very little upsets her."

You promptly decide not to jig her and sincerely hope that you have
not gone too far already.

At this point the child itself, who has hitherto been regarding you
with an expression of mingled horror and disgust, puts an end to the

nonsense by beginning to yell at the top of its voice, at which the
priestess rushes forward and snatches it from you with "There! there!

there! What did ums do to ums?" "How very extraordinary!" you say
pleasantly. "Whatever made it go off like that?" "Oh, why, you must

have done something to her!" says the mother indignantly; "the child