Our New Selection

The baby, twelve months old, was to be christened, and Mother
decided to give a party. She had been thinking about the party for
some time, but decision was contemporaneous with the arrival of a
certain mysterious parcel. We were preparing for the christening.
Dad and Dave drawing water; Joe raking husks and corn-cobs into a
heap at the door and burning them; Little Bill collecting the
pumpkins and pie-melons strewn about the yard. Mother and Sal were
busy inside. Mother stood on a box. Sal spread newspapers on the
table and smeared them over with paste, then handed them cautiously
to Mother, who fixed them on the wall. The baby crawled on the
floor.

"Not that way," said Mother. "That's upside down; give them to me
straight, 'cause your father sometimes likes to read them when
they're up."

They chatted about the christening.

"Indeed, then, she won't be asked," Sal said; "not if she goes down
on her knees--the skinny little--"

"Min', min', mind, girl!" Mother screeched, and Sal dropped the
newspaper she was about to hand up, and, jumping a stool, caught
the baby by the skirt-tail just as it was about to wobble into the
fire.

"My goodness! You little rat!" The baby laughed playfully and
struggled to get out of her arms. Sal placed it at the opposite
side of the room and the decorating continued.

"I can remember the time, then," Mother said, "when they hadn't so
much to be flash about, when the old woman and that eldest girl,
Johanna, used to go about in their bare feet and with dresses on--
dear me--that I wouldn't give a black-gin!"

"Not Johanna, Mother?"

"Yes. Johanna. You wouldn't remember it, of course. Norah was
the baby then."

"You little wretch!" And Sal rushed for the baby and pulled it
from the fire once more. She dumped it down in a different corner,
and returned to the paste. The baby made eagerly for the fire
again, but when half-way across the room it stopped, rested its
cheek on the floor and fell asleep--and it on the verge of being
christened "Bartholomew"--until Dad came in and took it up.

Mother went into her bed-room and came out with a flaring red sash
flying over her greasy gown, and asked Dad if he liked it. Dad
looked at the ribbon, then out of the window and chuckled.

"What d'y' think of me?"

"Think of y'?" And Dad grinned.

Mother looked fondly at the ribbon. She was very satisfied with
herself. She was a true woman, was Mother. She tripped into the
room again and came out with some yards of print, and asked Dad
what he thought of that. Mother was fond of dress.

"Dear me, woman," Dad said, "what's going to happen?"

"But how do y' like it?"--letting it hang like a skirt.