Out upon the sidewalk this morning, I observed a carriage drawn up before a stately mansion, a portly gentleman alight, and, turning, take from the carriage the ominous hand trunk. Ah! thought I, somebody has got to take it, and what will the portion be ?
Just then a sweet, tiny face appeared in the vestibule, red nose, suffused eyes and tired look told the story, when she looked quaintly up and said, "I've got cold, doctor." Her apparent pride to share in a popular influenza was comical, but her dividend with other stockholders of the household was new, while their familiarity with the stock, had no doubt made them less exuberant.
What if that sweet child, so brave, and prompt to say, I've got something I ought not to have, and which mamma says I must get rid of, had been taught the value of saying more bravely, "I've not got cold?" Why the doctor's sqills and bills might have been saved, and the little one been bounding through the cold air with sparkling eyes, and ruby cheeks painted and fattened by metaphysical hygiene.
