I am chary nowadays of offering counsel in connection with subjects concerning which I am not and cannot be an authority.Long ago Ionce took upon myself to write a paper about babies.It did not aim to be a textbook on the subject.It did not even claim to exhaust the topic.I was willing that others,coming after me,should continue the argument--that is if,upon reflection,they were still of opinion there was anything more to be said.I was pleased with the article.I went out of my way to obtain an early copy of the magazine in which it appeared,on purpose to show it to a lady friend of mine.She was the possessor of one or two babies of her own,specimens in no way remarkable,though she herself,as was natural enough,did her best to boom them.I thought it might be helpful to her:the views and observations,not of a rival fancier,who would be prejudiced,but of an intelligent amateur.I put the magazine into her hands,opened at the proper place.
"Read it through carefully and quietly,"I said;"don't let anything distract you.Have a pencil and a bit of paper ready at your side,and note down any points upon which you would like further information.If there is anything you think I have missed out let me know.It may be that here and there you will be disagreeing with me.
If so,do not hesitate to mention it,I shall not be angry.If a demand arises I shall very likely issue an enlarged and improved edition of this paper in the form of a pamphlet,in which case hints and suggestions that to you may appear almost impertinent will be of distinct help to me.""I haven't got a pencil,"she said;"what's it all about?""It's about babies,"I explained,and I lent her a pencil.
That is another thing I have learnt.Never lend a pencil to a woman if you ever want to see it again.She has three answers to your request for its return.The first,that she gave it back to you and that you put it in your pocket,and that it's there now,and that if it isn't it ought to be.The second,that you never lent it to her.
The third,that she wishes people would not lend her pencils and then clamour for them back,just when she has something else far more important to think about.
"What do you know about babies?"she demanded.
"If you will read the paper,"I replied,"you will see for yourself.
It's all there."
She flicked over the pages contemptuously.
"There doesn't seem much of it?"she retorted.
"It is condensed,"I pointed out to her.
"I am glad it is short.All right,I'll read it,"she agreed.
I thought my presence might disturb her,so went out into the garden.
I wanted her to get the full benefit of it.I crept back now and again to peep through the open window.She did not seem to be making many notes.But I heard her making little noises to herself.When Isaw she had reached the last page,I re-entered the room.
"Well?"I said.
"Is it meant to be funny,"she demanded,"or is it intended to be taken seriously?""There may be flashes of humour here and there--"She did not wait for me to finish.
"Because if it's meant to be funny,"she said,"I don't think it is at all funny.And if it is intended to be serious,there's one thing very clear,and that is that you are not a mother."With the unerring instinct of the born critic she had divined my one weak point.Other objections raised against me I could have met.
But that one stinging reproach was unanswerable.It has made me,as I have explained,chary of tendering advice on matters outside my own department of life.Otherwise,every year,about Valentine's day,there is much that I should like to say to my good friends the birds.
I want to put it to them seriously.Is not the month of February just a little too early?Of course,their answer would be the same as in the case of my motherly friend.
"Oh,what do you know about it?you are not a bird."I know I am not a bird,but that is the very reason why they should listen to me.I bring a fresh mind to bear upon the subject.I am not tied down by bird convention.February,my dear friends--in these northern climes of ours at all events--is much too early.You have to build in a high wind,and nothing,believe me,tries a lady's temper more than being blown about.Nature is nature,and womenfolk,my dear sirs,are the same all the world over,whether they be birds or whether they be human.I am an older person than most of you,and I speak with the weight of experience.
If I were going to build a house with my wife,I should not choose a season of the year when the bricks and planks and things were liable to be torn out of her hand,her skirts blown over her head,and she left clinging for dear life to a scaffolding pole.I know the feminine biped and,you take it from me,that is not her notion of a honeymoon.In April or May,the sun shining,the air balmy--when,after carrying up to her a load or two of bricks,and a hod or two of mortar,we could knock off work for a few minutes without fear of the whole house being swept away into the next street--could sit side by side on the top of a wall,our legs dangling down,and peck and morsel together;after which I could whistle a bit to her--then housebuilding might be a pleasure.
The swallows are wisest;June is their idea,and a very good idea,too.In a mountain village in the Tyrol,early one summer,I had the opportunity of watching very closely the building of a swallow's nest.After coffee,the first morning,I stepped out from the great,cool,dark passage of the wirtschaft into the blazing sunlight,and,for no particular reason,pulled-to the massive door behind me.
