Holding a Baby.Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a woman, laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, accosted me with “Say, mister, can I git to Market street on these yer cars?” “You can,” I replied. “How long must I wait?” “Madam,” said I, noticing the string slipping from her bandbox, “may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until the car arrives? See, here it comes!” “I’d rather you’d hold Berthy, if you will, mister, ’cause this darned string’s a slippin’ off—quick!—ketch it! Land o’ misery! There be all my things scattered over the bricks! Do hold Berthy while I pick ’em up.” Here was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, while the sidewalk was strewn with every conceivable article, from a broken hair brush to a pair of old worsted slippers.“Hurry up, then, madam,” cried I, as I reached for the child, “I have an appointment and must take this car.” Just as I took her from the woman’s arms, Berthy set up a yell that would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had gathered up half the articles the car was upon us. Leaving her bandbox, she ran to the crossing, and with a “Hold on there, you!” signaled the driver to stop. The latter, taking in the situation, kept on, but a fat man standing on the platform pulled the bell and the car stopped, about half a dozen yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was inside, collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with one hand and beckoning with the other, screeched: “If you want to ride down, come on; I ain’t a-goin’ to anchor here all day!” As soon as the woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I started for the car. “Tell your wife to come,” yelled the conductor. I looked back and there stood the woman on the corner. “Do you think I’m a-goin’ to wade through that mud?” screamed the woman, “for if you do, you’re mistaken. Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too!” I had reached the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, “Walk along the pavement and get on here!” A cross old maid looking through the window at my elbow remarked aloud: “Hear him abuse his poor wife!” The fat man suggested that I should manage the freight and let my wife take the baby. The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked snap, and with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, the car started down the street like a ten-penny nail from a slap-jack. “Here, madam,” said I, in desperation, “take the child, I have forgotten my pocket book.” She dropped into a seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from the carthe word “scoundrel!” was hissed into my ear. Turning quickly, my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. “Go!” she muttered. Well, I did go! Friends do you see this bald spot on my head? Well, that reminds me never to fool with other people’s babies.—Geo.M. Vickers.
Yesterday, while waiting on the corner for a street-car, a woman, laden with an umbrella, a bandbox and a baby, accosted me with “Say, mister, can I git to Market street on these yer cars?” “You can,” I replied. “How long must I wait?” “Madam,” said I, noticing the string slipping from her bandbox, “may I hold your umbrella and bandbox until the car arrives? See, here it comes!” “I’d rather you’d hold Berthy, if you will, mister, ’cause this darned string’s a slippin’ off—quick!—ketch it! Land o’ misery! There be all my things scattered over the bricks! Do hold Berthy while I pick ’em up.” Here was a dilemma. The car was not forty yards off, while the sidewalk was strewn with every conceivable article, from a broken hair brush to a pair of old worsted slippers.“Hurry up, then, madam,” cried I, as I reached for the child, “I have an appointment and must take this car.” Just as I took her from the woman’s arms, Berthy set up a yell that would have paralyzed a huckster. Before the woman had gathered up half the articles the car was upon us. Leaving her bandbox, she ran to the crossing, and with a “Hold on there, you!” signaled the driver to stop. The latter, taking in the situation, kept on, but a fat man standing on the platform pulled the bell and the car stopped, about half a dozen yards beyond the flag-stones. The conductor, who was inside, collecting fares, ran out, and, grasping the bell-strap with one hand and beckoning with the other, screeched: “If you want to ride down, come on; I ain’t a-goin’ to anchor here all day!” As soon as the woman took up her bandbox and umbrella, I started for the car. “Tell your wife to come,” yelled the conductor. I looked back and there stood the woman on the corner. “Do you think I’m a-goin’ to wade through that mud?” screamed the woman, “for if you do, you’re mistaken. Just back that ve-he-cle to me, right quick, too!” I had reached the platform with Berthy in my arms, but the woman, looking cyclones, still refused to move an inch. I shrieked out, “Walk along the pavement and get on here!” A cross old maid looking through the window at my elbow remarked aloud: “Hear him abuse his poor wife!” The fat man suggested that I should manage the freight and let my wife take the baby. The woman slowly picked her way through the mire and stepped on the car. The conductor gave the bell a wicked snap, and with a jerk that almost threw us over the dasher, the car started down the street like a ten-penny nail from a slap-jack. “Here, madam,” said I, in desperation, “take the child, I have forgotten my pocket book.” She dropped into a seat and took her baby. Just as I was rushing from the carthe word “scoundrel!” was hissed into my ear. Turning quickly, my horrified eyes beheld the stony gaze of my wife. “Go!” she muttered. Well, I did go! Friends do you see this bald spot on my head? Well, that reminds me never to fool with other people’s babies.
—Geo.M. Vickers.