Part 12

“Oh, well, you see I have thus far been talking in a quite commonplace fashion. We have exchanged hardly more than mere conversational greetings. With most persons the conversation would of necessity begin and end with mere perfunctory remarks, and that wouldn’t be worth while. You, however, being a doctor, and consequently a man of learning, are capable of appreciating me at my true value. I have long experienced a desire to converse with you, and to-night I resolved to call upon you here at your own home, where we can have a little chat without danger of interruption.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling at his assurance, “but how on earth have you acquired the information necessary to carry on an intelligent conversation with a scientific physician? You are only about three years of age, and if you are as intellectual as you claim to be, your precocity is certainly marvelous.”

My little friend smiled blandly, and replied: “That word, precocity, is a very offensive one, but I excuse you for using it, because it is evident that you do not know the true explanation of the advanced intellect of the so-called precocious child. Do you know anything of Buddhism, doctor?”

“Well, yes, something.”

“Then you will understand me when I say that ‘precocity’ is merely the development in the child of a portion of the wisdom acquired during its previous terrestrial existences. As you are aware, the modern school of theosophists has appropriated this theory of the Buddhists.”

“Very true,” I replied, with some amusement, “but that does not add to the validity of the theory.”

“It is evident that you are not a theosophist, doctor. I assure you, however, that the Buddhists are right. I know they are right, for I have myself been on earth twice before. You have doubtless often noted that I am not as other children.”

“True, you have always seemed much older than your years,” I replied.

“Then you are prepared to believe me when I assert that what you have regarded as an appearance of premature age, is merely a reflection of my past lives showing through the childlike envelopment of the present.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed, “there is certainly food for reflection in what you say. I confess, however, that the idea had never suggested itself to me. I shall certainly make a note of it.”

My visitor seemed gratified at having imparted such interesting and valuable information.

“And now, doctor, I am sure you will not consider me egotistic if I claim to be, what my appearance would indicate--a ‘wise child’.”

“Oh, ho! Are you the original ‘wise child’ who knew his own father?” I asked, jocularly.

My young friend seemed to take me seriously, and replied, “Pshaw! doctor; I am surprised that you even remember that absurd theory. There’s nothing in it, and besides, it’s a very crude test of intellectuality. Why shouldn’t any child who is not an idiot, know its own father? Why, I was introduced to mine immediately on my arrival in your inhospitable clime. I remember the introduction more particularly, because, not knowing what sort of people I was to fall in with, I was quite afraid I might be asked to step over and sit with the girls--a fate too horrible to think of!

“Now, doctor, I suppose you are wondering what I am going to find to talk about. I have already informed you that platitudes and conventional commonplaces are very fatiguing to me. I assure you, however, that it is not my intention to go to the other extreme and talk abstract science.”

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed, “Do you mean to say that you have had a scientific training?”

“Oh, my, yes!” replied young Smith, drawing himself up--rather proudly it seemed to me. “But,” he continued, “I am not going to enter into the scientific heavies. I shall deal largely in generalities, and such science as may appear in my remarks will be of a rather superficial sort.

“Since knowing you, doctor, I have become quite reconciled to the death of your predecessor in our family--dear old Dr. Whittemore. He was a kind, considerate old man, and as tender-hearted as a woman, despite his rough ways. But I didn’t like him at first. You see I didn’t understand him very well. He had such a habit of swearing to himself whenever he looked at these crooked legs of mine. But he was my friend, nevertheless, and several times when old Smith was--”

“I beg pardon,” I said, “but did you say, old Smith?”

“Why, yes,” replied my visitor, raising his eyebrows as though surprised at the interruption, “old Smith--the governor, you know.”

“Oh, I see, you mean your father,” I replied.

“Of course I meant my father!” exclaimed the youngster impatiently.

“Well, as I was saying, continued the child, several times when old Smith was especially cross with me and the doctor happened to be present, the old fellow took my part and told the governor he ought to be ashamed of himself.

“Smith once pointed at me and said, ‘Great God! man, look at that head and those legs! How can you blame me for being disgusted because the little beast lived?’

“‘Now, see here, Smith,’ exclaimed the doctor, ‘that young-one, so far as I am aware, is in no wise responsible for the contour of his legs or the bulginess of his cranium. You and I have a theory regarding the cause of the baby’s peculiarities, which lays the responsibility at the door of one--’

“‘Sh!--’ said pa, ‘there is no necessity of your being personal, and besides, my mother-in-law is in the next room, and it is really foolish to call her in counsel. She is troublesome enough now. She looks suspiciously wise at times.’

“‘Well, then,’ said the doctor, ‘don’t talk so like a d--d fool!’

“‘Oh, there’s no use roasting me, doctor, I am patient enough under the circumstances. I sometimes think that if the medical profession did its full duty, such children would not--’

“‘Would not live to a ripe old age, eh, Smith?’ interrupted the doctor, angrily. ‘Well, sir, the profession of medicine is sometimes compelled to save people from the consequences of their crimes--it does not, however, feel in duty bound to commit crimes for them. I trust the ethical distinction between the duty of the profession and the dirty work some persons would have it do for them, is clear to your somewhat biased intellect, my good sir!’

“My! but old Smith was mad--madder than a hornet! But the doctor seemed to have the better of the argument, and the governor soon cleared out, grumbling to himself and swearing at the cat that got in his way and had his tail stepped on.”

“The old doctor certainly was your friend, and I am not very favorably impressed by your description of your father. I might say in passing, however, that your lack of filial respect is a by no means commendable trait in your character. No matter what his peculiarities may be, you must remember that Smith is your father and as such demands respect. Have you forgotten what the Bible says, ‘Honor thy father and thy mother?’”

My young friend looked extremely disgusted, and replied:

“Dear me, doctor!--can’t you get along without quoting such old, wormy, out-of-date authorities as the Bible? That advice was all well enough in its day, but honoring one’s parents in the collective sense is played out in these modern times. Mothers are just as much deserving of honor as ever--and that’s a great deal, but fathers--humph! The fellow who wrote that particular portion of the scriptures didn’t know Smith, you can just bet your bottom dollar on that. If I was as big a fool as he thinks I am, I might honor and respect him, but I know a thing or two.

“Honor Smith? Ye gods! Look at the protuberances of my cranium! Gaze upon these misshapen legs of mine! You told my mother I had ‘rickets,’ didn’t you?”

“Ye--yes, I believe I did.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for your ignorance, doctor. You have not been in practice long enough to lose faith in human nature. Now, old Dr. Whittemore knew better, and so does Smith.”

“But, my dear boy,” I interposed, “I think I know rachitis when I see it.”

“So, rachitis is the scientific appellation, eh? Well, in the language of the street, ‘rachitis nothing!’ Can’t you see through a millstone with a hole in it? Doctor, my so-called rickets is nothing more nor less than--”

“Hush! for the Lord’s sake, hush!” I cried, putting my hand over young Smith’s mouth, as a horrible suspicion suddenly flashed upon me. “Be careful, my young friend, even the walls of a doctor’s study may have ears. Can it be possible that I have been mistaken and that--”

“Precisely so, sir,” interrupted my visitor sarcastically. “You are really growing quite intelligent. If you keep on, doctor, you will be as good an intuitive diagnostician as we have in Chicago, and that’s saying much.”

“Yes,” I replied with some confusion, “but you can’t expect a fellow to carry a divining rod about with him, and besides, your family is one of the highest respectability.”

My young visitor sneered perceptibly and retorted:

“Of course, you are like the rest of humanity, looking for respectability in high places and overlooking the pearls that lie imbedded in the mud of poverty and social mediocrity. I really feel inclined to lecture you, doctor, you seem so woefully stupid in some directions. Here you are, with abundant opportunities for study and observation of human nature, maundering of ‘respectability’ as a factor in diagnosis! Not but that it is a factor sometimes, but you don’t weigh the evidence just right. You are inclined to misconstrue social prominence as a factor in your diagnoses. Your interpretation of it is only too often precisely opposite to the truth.

“Look at the childlessness of the average high-toned family--look at the character of the progeny of those who do have children, and then babble of ‘respectability!’ Faugh! doctor, you make me sick. For a scientific physician, you are the most innocent man I ever knew.”

“Oh, come now,” I said, “I don’t pretend to know it all, but I am not quite so big a fool as you might suppose.”

“Well, perhaps not--quite. There may be bigger chumps, but I dare say they are all practicing medicine.”

“By the way,” he continued, “speaking of honoring one’s father, I can’t for the life of me see why a fellow should be expected to do that. Fathers are mere accidents in the scheme of nature. You see, anybody will answer for a father, but with your mother--well, that’s different. No other could fill her place. Most people think the male human is the important element in our social system, but that’s all rot. He is a secondary consideration, a mere incident, and should be given to understand it.”

“Um-m ah!” I answered slowly, “I believe the truth is gradually dawning upon him. The new woman is--”

“Great guns, doctor! Do you mean those things with breeches on, that ride bicycles, and play foot ball?”

“Well, in a measure, yes,” I replied.

“Come, come, doctor! I was talking about natural phenomena as involved in the perpetuation of the species; I had no thought of what biologists term sports in nature.”

“Ah, that’s different, my boy,” I said, “unless you use the term ‘sport’ as a _double entendre_.”

“I don’t think I quite understand you, doctor.”

“Oh well, I suppose my play upon words was a little too commonplace for you,” I replied, meanwhile thinking that the Smith baby, was something of a chump himself. Not wishing to hurt his feelings, however, I held my peace, and he continued:

“Do you know, doctor, I think that if a child is expected to honor its father, it should have some voice in his selection. Now, for example,” and the poor little chap felt of his bumps and gazed mournfully at his crippled limbs, “I should not have been as I am, had I been permitted to select my father. Of course I might have made a mistake, anyway, but you can be assured that I should never have selected Smith.”

“Well, Smith might not have been such a bad father if--”

“Oh, I know what you are going to say, doctor, but no amount of preparatory treatment would ever have made Smith anything but a mean old cuss, anyhow.”

“Perhaps you are right,” I answered, “and, come to think of it, as your family is a comparatively new one to me, I believe I’ll insist on monthly settlements of my bills.”

“Well, you know your own business better than I do, but I know Smith pretty well, and I don’t think it will do any harm,--unless he gets mad and changes doctors. I hope he won’t do that, for I am beginning to like you pretty well, and I dread a change. There’s no telling what these highly ‘respectable’ people will do, you know, and now that you are beginning to understand my case a little, a change of doctors might be disastrous. You see, I can’t talk to everybody as freely as I feel that I can to you.”

“Then I guess I won’t send in any bill, it would be too bad to neglect you, just because your father is--”

“A brute, eh, doctor?”

“N-no, I shouldn’t like to say that,” I replied.

“Because of his eminent respectability, I presume,” said my visitor, grinning sarcastically.

I was discreetly silent.

“Well,” continued the young wiseacre, “I don’t suppose that you and I alone could settle a certain phase of the social problem, even if we were foolish enough to try, but there are some very interesting points that might be discussed upon the question of that veneering of ‘respectability’ for which you seem to have such great reverence. I should like to discuss them with you, did time permit. I assure you that I have given the subject much conscientious study and deep thought.

“There is one point, doctor, in which you physicians are very remiss, and which, for the sake of suffering childhood, I cannot allow to pass unnoticed. I refer to the indiscriminate fashion in which people are allowed to marry, and rear children. Why, when I look about me and see the number of infantile wrecks, who, like myself, are victims of your pernicious social system, I am disgusted. If the principals in matrimonial mistakes were the only ones to suffer, it would be different, but it’s the babies that get the worst of it. And you medical blockheads look on and say nothing. You are too stupid to see anything, perhaps, and therefore have nothing to say.”

“Well, my boy, you have the making of a social reformer in you. I don’t know that I ever gave the subject much thought. I have been too busy with--”

“Too busy trying to cure results to inquire into causes, eh, doctor?”

“Why, I--that is, not exactly,” I stammered, “you know, my boy, that--”

“Oh, yes, I understand, old fellow, you are not quite blind to such things, but you don’t propose either to pose as a Hercules cleaning out the Augean stables, or expose yourself to the same sort of ridicule as did Don Quixote when he challenged the wind-mills. Shame on you, doctor! Be a good Philistine and snap your fingers at conventionalities!”

“See here, my young friend, I am practicing medicine for a livelihood, and I can’t afford to be radical in my views. It’s all well enough to scarify society, if you don’t depend upon it for bread and butter--but in my case it’s different, and I must be careful.”

Young Smith shrugged his shoulders somewhat contemptuously, and replied:

“What a queer world! You fellows work like a dog in a treadmill all your lives, trying to make enough hay while the sun is shining, to enable you to take some comfort by and by. When the ‘by and by’ comes, you have lost the capacity for enjoyment. You slave from morning till night, to acquire a competency--and the brains--that will enable you to be independent in thought and action. Then, when the wished-for time does come, you--well, you roll over like a fish and die. Always going to have a good time--some day; always going to be a Philistine--some day; always looking ahead into that undiscovered country where lies--the grave. Your ambition ends in six feet of earth. Pshaw! how you people irritate me! Why not learn to labor and to loaf?”

My visitor’s words impressed me more than I would have been willing to acknowledge.

“Heigho!” I exclaimed, “I don’t know but you are right, my boy, and yet, I don’t exactly see how I can help matters much.”

“There’s one thing you can do, doctor, you can at least make the effort to impress upon the public the necessity of treating human beings with the same degree of intelligence and consideration that you bestow upon animals. Get rid of that idiotic, sentimental moonshine about ‘joining two souls in wedlock’ and come down to the common-sense basis of a union for a specific, organic purpose between two bipeds, that are or should be, subject to the same laws as other animals. Do this and there will be fewer hideous heads and miserable legs like mine.”

My little friend wept silently.

“Come, come, my lad, cheer up,” I said, “You must remember that the ranks of the immortal geniuses of the world have been largely recruited from such material as yourself.”

“You doubtless mean to be consoling, my dear sir,” replied the child, “but you forget the chief consolation contained in your argument.”

“Pray, what is that?” I asked.

“Why those degenerate geniuses die young, and leave no posterity to perpetuate their misery.”

“You are right,” I said, musingly. “I did not think of that.”

“Do you know, doctor, that the most philosophic _bon mot_ ever perpetrated, and the one which seems most appropriate to my case, is that facetious description which somebody gave of the mule. He said, if I remember correctly, that the mule was an animal which had no ‘pride of paternity and no hope of posterity’.”

“And yet,” I replied, “the mule is not the happiest and most placid animal in the world. The clam is his superior in many respects.”

“Yes, and there are many human clams. I fancy, however, that you do not envy them, doctor.”

“Well, I am not so sure about that, my dear young friend. The higher emotions and more refined sensibilities are the foundation of most of the sorrows of life.”

“But what of the pleasures, doctor?”

“True, I had forgotten them,” I replied.

* * * * *

We sat for some time, young Smith and I, silently gazing into the fireplace. My cigar having gone out, I relighted it and began puffing vigorously, with the result of blowing some dense clouds of smoke in the direction of my visitor. A sharp cough, followed by a decided sputter, reminded me of my unintentional discourtesy.

“Pardon me, my boy, but I forgot that you are not used to tobacco.”

The wise child smiled, and with a humorous twinkle in his bright eyes replied:

“Well, doctor, you haven’t given me much opportunity to become inured to it this evening--save by proxy, and there are some things that cannot be done by proxy with any degree of satisfaction.”

“Good heavens, boy! You don’t mean to say that you smoke?”

“Don’t I, though? Just try me and see.”

Amazed though I was, I politely extended my cigar case. With the air of a _connoisseur_, my visitor selected one, bit off the end, and, taking my proffered match, lighted the weed and began smoking, with all the _sang froid_ of an old timer.

“By Jove! doctor, you don’t smoke drugstore cigars, I see.”

“N--no,” I said, “I get the best there is in the market,” meanwhile mentally apologizing to my friend K----, the pharmacist who had given me the box from which that very cigar was taken.

“Do you know, doctor, I haven’t enjoyed a smoke for ages. I used to ‘hit the pipe,’ as you now express it, when I was on earth before. But then,” he sighed, “opium was opium in those days.”

“And pray, what is it nowadays?” I asked.

“Soothing syrup, b’gosh! And I don’t like it a little bit, though I’ve swallowed a barrel of it.

“Which reminds me that you doctors don’t know much about colicky babies,” said my visitor.

“N--no--I don’t suppose we do know a great deal about infantile colic--save by its works--drat it!”

“And its music,” said young Smith, chuckling audibly, as a prolonged, painful, quavering wail was wafted in at the window from a house across the street.

“Come, come, my boy, you mustn’t be too hard on us doctors. Besides, that confounded young one over yonder isn’t under my care. If he was it might be different. One of my brethren from Dearborn Avenue has charge of him. He doesn’t seem to be succeeding very well, either, for the little fiend is yelling night and day. He has kept me awake nights for about three weeks. If I shut down the windows, I smother, and if I open them that vicious little animal disturbs my rest--and there you are!”

“Well, why don’t you do something for the poor little chap?”

“Oh, as I told you, he’s not my patient. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to chip in,” I replied. “And besides, I don’t think his mother would give him the medicine, even if I should send it over.”

“Ah, then you think you could relieve him, eh? I am glad to know there is one doctor who knows how to treat colic. Really, I’m almost sorry I haven’t had it since I have been under your care. Tell me, pray, what would you give the child?”

“Four ounces of chloroform,” I replied, vindictively.

“The trouble with you doctors nowadays,” said the Smith baby, “is that you talk too much about microbes. Do you remember that attack of cholera-infantum I had?”

“Yes--I should rather think I did.”

“Well, you talked about toxins, and microbes, until you made me sicker than ever. There I was, drinking hog-wash baby-food out of a dirty old bottle through a nasty rubber tube, and poisoning myself every time I did it, and you talking about germs and such things! Germs be blowed! I was suffering from an overdose of dirt--just plain ordinary dirt. Mother was too busy with her receptions and parties, to attend to me, and that fool nurse neglected me. You told her to scald my bottle, but she never did it. Why, the day before I fell sick, the cat was playing with that infernal tube for a straight two hours.”

My visitor was becoming excited. He fairly shrieked--“Microbes, germs, toxins! Dirt, sir, just plain, common, everyday dirt!”

“Well,” I said, “some of us doctors are beginning to believe that while there may be a distinction between dirt and microbes, there’s precious little practical difference after all.”

* * * * *

“I wonder if the Lord ever intended man to smoke,” said the wise child. “He would have made the tobacco plant the tree of knowledge, if he had known as much about nicotine as we do.”

“Possibly,” I replied, “but there are different opinions on that subject. A radical old minister once said that if the Lord had intended man to smoke, he would have put a chimney in the back of his head.”

“Humph! that old fool didn’t know much. If he had ever smoked--a--cigar like this--he--would--”

My young friend paused, and put his hand to the pit of his stomach.

“Why, my dear boy, you seem distressed. Really, you are quite pale. Pray, let me get you some--”

“Oh, it’s nothing, doctor, I--well, you see, I am not used to--to late hours,” said the poor little chap, with a painful effort to smile.

“Perhaps some fresh air might make you feel better,” I suggested, “I will raise another window.”

“N--no, never mind. I believe I’ll just step to the door for a moment, if you don’t object. I feel a little--”

I grasped the situation, and hastily escorted my visitor to the veranda.

Appreciating the delicacy of my guest’s position, I then discreetly returned to my sanctum and resumed my cigar. Certain peculiar sounds that came through the open door, confirmed my hasty diagnosis.

I waited until the tumultuous heavings of my young friend’s diaphragm had ceased, and then went out to ask him to return to the library, but he was nowhere to be seen. The “wise child” had gone!

As I stood there musing, and thinking that nicotine levels all intellectual distinctions between children, a firm hand was laid on my shoulder and a voice said in my ear:

“Doctor, you have been sleeping in your chair about long enough. Go to bed, you silly fellow!”

I was about to follow my wife’s advice, when--

“Ting-aling-a-ling!” came a ring at the telephone.