As it is the correct thing now to lie down all of a summer afternoon, hidden by trees, and closely watch every movement of a pair of little birds, or spend hours by a frog pond studying the sluggish life there, and as mothers are urged by scientific students to record daily the development of their infants in each apparently unimportant matter, I think I may be excused for a brief sketch of my charge, for no mother ever had a child so precocious, so wise, so willful, so affectionate, so persistent, as Kizzie at the same age.  Before he was three days old, he would follow me like a dog up and down stairs and all over the house, walk behind me as I strolled about the grounds, and when tired, he would cry and “peep, weep” for me to sit down.  Then he would beg to be taken on my lap, thence he would proceed to my arm, then my neck, where he would peck and scream and flutter, determined to nestle there for a nap.  My solicitude increased as he lived on, and I hoped to “raise” him.  He literally demanded every moment of my time, my entire attention during the day, and, alas! at night also, until I seemed to be living a tragic farce!

If put down on carpet or matting, he at once began to pick up everything he could spy on the floor, and never before did I realize how much could be found there.  I had a dressmaker in the house, and Kizzie was always going for a deadly danger—­here a pin, there a needle, just a step away a tack or a bit of thread or a bead of jet.

Outdoors it was even worse.  With two bird dogs ready for anything but birds, the pug that had already devoured all that had come to me of my expensive importations, a neighbor’s cat often stealing over to hunt for her dinner, a crisis seemed imminent every minute.  Even his own father would destroy him if they met, as the peacock allows no possible rival.  And Kizzie kept so close to my heels that I hardly dared step.  If my days were distracting, the nights were inexpressibly awful.  I supposed he would be glad to go to sleep in a natural way after a busy day.  No, indeed!  He would not stay in box or basket, or anywhere but cradled close in my neck.  There he wished to remain, twittering happily, giving now and then a sweet, little, tremulous trill, indicative of content, warmth, and drowsiness; if I dared to move ever so little, showing by a sharp scratch from his claws that he preferred absolute quiet.  One night, when all worn out, I rose and put him in a hat box and covered it closely, but his piercing cries of distress and anger prevented the briefest nap, reminding me of the old man who said, “Yes, it’s pretty dangerous livin’ anywheres.”  I was so afraid of hurting him that I scarcely dared move.  Each night we had a prolonged battle, but he never gave in for one instant until he could roost on my outstretched finger or just under my chin.  Then he would settle down, the conflict over, he as usual the victor, and the sweet little lullaby would begin.