Algy is four; till last year he was always called the baby. Now, of
course, there is no excuse; but the name still clings to him in spite
of his indignant protestations. Father called upstairs to him the
other day: 'Baby, bring me down my gaiters.' He walked straight up
to the cradle and woke up the baby. 'Get up,' I heard him say--I was
just outside the door--'and take your father down his gaiters. Don't
you hear him calling you?' He is a droll little fellow. Father took
him to Oxford last Saturday. He is small for his age. The ticket-
collector, quite contented, threw him a glance, and merely as a
matter of form asked if he was under three. 'No,' he shouted before
father could reply; 'I 'sists on being honest. I'se four.' It is
father's pet phrase."
"What view do you take of the exchange," I asked her, "from
stockbroking with its larger income to farming with its smaller?"
"Perhaps it was selfish," she answered, "but I am afraid I rather
encouraged father. It seems to me mean, making your living out of
work that does no good to anyone. I hate the bargaining, but the
farming itself I love. Of course, it means having only one evening
dress a year and making that myself. But even when I had a lot I
always preferred wearing the one that I thought suited me the best.
As for the children, they are as healthy as young savages, and
everything they want to make them happy is just outside the door.
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