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But the coin she held was a talisman against outer discomforts, and she continued to walk on till she came to a clean-looking dairy, where for a couple of pence she was able to replenish the infant's long ago emptied feeding bottle; but she purchased nothing for herself. She had starved all day, and was now too faint to eat.
Clayton, rest assured." "If you had loved the child with true friendship, you would have pushed him into the sea, rather than have held him in your arms above it." "Do you suppose he is less near to God than you or I to Christ the all-merciful?" I questioned, sternly. "Much rather would I have that infant's yet unconscious hope of heaven than either yours or mine, Mrs. Clayton!"
I thought of the lines from Crashaw's Hymn of the Nativity Crashaw, who always suggested to me Shelley turned a Catholic Priest: "I saw the curled drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Offering their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold: Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold."
About a quarter of an hour later Eustace Tudor rose noiselessly and stood looking down at his young wife's sleeping face. It was placid as an infant's, and her breathing was soft and regular. He knew that, undisturbed, she would sleep so for hours. And so he did not dare to kiss her.
He did not remember what they were, except that one was the omission of the wife to throw into the fire the lump of dough from the Sabbath bread. But these neglects could not be visited on a Christian, he thought dully. The only distraction of his grief was the infant's pressing demand on his attention. It was some days before the news penetrated to the old woman.
Sherwood's "Infant's Progress," and I made a personal application of it, picturing myself as the naughty, willful "Playful," and my sister Lida as the saintly little "Peace." This book gave me a morbid, unhappy feeling, while yet it had something of the fascination of the "Pilgrim's Progress," of which it is an imitation.
"What a funny face," he cooed as he pinched the youngster's cheek. "Great Scott, what a grip," he cried as the infant's fingers closed around his own. "Will you look at the size of those hands," he exclaimed. Zoie and Aggie exchanged worried glances; the baby had no doubt inherited his large hands from his mother.
I cannot help expressing my disapprobation of the practice of smothering up an infant's face with a handkerchief, with a veil or with any other covering, when he is taken out into the air. If his face be so muffled up, he may as well remain at home, as under such circumstances, it is impossible for him to receive any benefit from the invigorating effects of the fresh air.
The clumsy operator begins to assail it straight with denunciations of sin, but, instead of producing penitence, he only rouses the whole man into proud and angry self-defence; whereas a single touch, no heavier than an infant's finger, applied away up somewhere, remote from conscience, in the region of the imagination, may send an electric shock down through the whole being and shake the conscience from centre to circumference.
A more generally recognized and certainly fundamental reason for suckling the child is that the milk of the mother, provided she is reasonably healthy, is the infant's only ideally fit food.
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