CHAPTER XV.
THE OLD CRADLE.
The historic and old-time cradle is dead, and buried in the rubbish of the garret.

A baby of five months, filled with modern notions, would spurn to be rocked in the awkward and rustic thing.

The baby spits the "Alexandra feeding-bottle" out of its mouth, and protests against the old-fashioned cradle, giving emphasis to its utterances by throwing down a rattle that cost seven dollars, and kicking off a shoe imported at fabulous expense, and upsetting the "baby-basket," with all its treasures of ivory hair brushes and "Meen Fun." Not with voice, but by violence of gesture and kicks and squirms, it says: "What! You going to put me in that old cradle?
Where is the nurse?
My patience! What does mother mean?
Get me a 'patented self-rocker!'" The parents yield.

In comes the new-fangled crib.

The machine is wound up, the baby put in, the crib set in motion, and mother goes off to make a first-rate speech at the "Woman's Rights Convention!" Conundrum: Why is a maternal elocutionist of this sort like a mother of old time, who trained four sons for the holy ministry, and through them was the means of reforming and saving a thousand souls, and through that thousand of saving ten thousand more?
You answer: "No resemblance at all!" You are right.