The baby (there always was a baby at the overseer’s) soon made his appearance, as babies will do everywhere; and then the unfortunate young curly-heads of riper age were forced to return once more to the grass and play with Longears—­they were forgotten.

To describe the goings on of the two young ladies with that baby is wholly out of the question.  They quarreled for it, chucked it in their arms, examined its toes with critical attention, and conversed with it in barbarous baby language, which was enough, Ralph said, to drive a man distracted.  They asked it various questions—­were delighted with its replies—­called its attention to the chickens—­and evidently labored under the impression that it understood.  They addressed the baby uniformly in the neuter gender, and requested to know whether it was not their darling.  To all which the baby replied with thoughtful stares, only occasionally condescending to laugh.  The feet having been examined again—­there is much in babies’ feet—­the party smiled and went away, calling after baby to the last.

“Now, that’s all affectation,” said Ralph; “you young ladies—­”

“You’re a barbarian, sir!” replied Fanny, with great candor.

“I know I am.”

“I’m glad you do.”

“But,” continued Ralph, “tell me now, really, do you young girls admire babies?”

“Certainly I do—­”

“And I,” said Redbud.

“They’re the sweetest, dearest things in all the world,” continued Fanny, “and the man who don’t like babies—­”

“Is a monster, eh?”

“Far worse, sir!”

And Fanny laughed.

“That is pleasant to know,” said Ralph; “then I’m a monster.”

Having arrived at which highly encouraging conclusion, the young man whistled.

“I say,” he said, suddenly, “I wanted to ask—­”

“Well, sir?” said Fanny.

“Before we leave the subject—­”

“What subject?”

“Babies.”

“Well, ask on.”

“I wish to know whether babies talk.”

“Certainly!”

“Really, now?”

“Yes.”

“And you understand them?”

“I do,” said Fanny.

“What does ‘um, um,’ mean?  I heard that baby say ‘um, um,’ distinctly.”

Fanny burst out laughing.

“Oh, I know!” she said, “when I gave him an apple.”

“Yes.”

“It meant, ’that is a very nice apple, and I would like to have some.’”

“Did it?”

“Of course.”

“Suppose, then, it had been a crab-apple, and the baby had still said ‘um, um,’ what would it then have meant?”

“Plainly this:  ’that is not a nice apple, and I would not like to have any.’”

“That is perfectly satisfactory,” said Ralph;"‘um, um,’ expresses either the desire to possess a sweet apple, or the objection to a sour one.  I have heard of delicate shades of language before, but this is the sublimity thereof.”