The cradled babies of to-day will be on deck.  Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract on their hands.  Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred things, if we could know which ones they are.  In one of them cradles the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething—­think of it!—­and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too.  In another the future renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a languid interest—­poor little chap!—­and wondering what has become of that other one they call the wet-nurse.  In another the future great historian is lying—­and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission is ended.  In another the future President is busying himself with no profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some 60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to grapple with that same old problem a second time.  And in still one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mind at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his big toe into his mouth—­an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the illustrious guest of this evening turned his entire attention to some fifty-six years ago; and if the child is but a prophecy of the man, there are mighty few who will doubt that he succeeded.

SPEECH ON THE WEATHER

AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY’S SEVENTY-FIRST ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY

     The next toast was:  “The Oldest Inhabitant—­The Weather of New
     England.”

                    Who can lose it and forget it? 
                    Who can have it and regret it?

                    Be interposes ’twixt us Twain. 
                                   Merchant of Venice.

     To this Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain) replied as follows:—­

I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather.  I don’t know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk’s factory who experiment and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take their custom elsewhere if they don’t get it.  There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger’s admiration—­and regret.  The weather is always doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will