He has brought up one baby,
and now, after seeing his first charge off to school, he is bringing up
another with the same conscientious devotion, but with a more deliberate
gravity of manner, the sign of greater wisdom and riper experience,
but also of rheumatism, I fear. From the morning bath to the evening
ceremonies of the cot, you attend the little two-legged creature of your
adoption, being yourself treated in the exercise of your duties with
every possible regard, with infinite consideration, by every person in
the house--even as I myself am treated; only you deserve it more.
The general's daughter would tell you that it must be "perfectly
delightful."
Aha! old dog. She never heard you yelp with acute pain (it's that poor
left ear) the while, with incredible self-command, you preserve a rigid
immobility for fear of overturning the little two-legged creature. She
has never seen your resigned smile when the little two-legged creature,
interrogated, sternly, "What are you doing to the good dog?" answers,
with a wide, innocent stare: "Nothing. Only loving him, mamma dear!"
The general's daughter does not know the secret terms of self-imposed
tasks, good dog, the pain that may lurk in the very rewards of rigid
self-command.
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