become the most doting, almost ridiculously fond papa that I ever saw.  Always the child must be in his lap at the most unseemly hours, when his wife would permit it.  When he went anywhere, or they, although they kept a maid the child must be carried along by him on his shoulder.  He liked nothing better than to sit and hold it close, rocking in a rocking-chair American style and singing, or come tramping into my home in New York, the child looking like a woolen ball.  At night if it stirred or whimpered he was up and looking.  And the baby-clothes!—­and the cradle!—­and the toys!—­colored rubber balls and soldiers the first or second or third week!

“What about that stern discipline that was to be put in force here—­no rocking, no getting up at night to coddle a weeping infant?”

“Yes, I know.  That’s all good stuff before you get one.  I’ve got one of my own now, and I’ve got a new light on this.  Say, Dreiser, take my advice.  Go through the routine.  Don’t try to escape.  Have a kid or two or three.  There’s a psychic punch to it you can’t get any other way.  It’s nature’s way.  It’s a great scheme.  You and your girl and your kid.”

As he talked he rocked, holding the baby boy to his breast.  It was wonderful.

And Mrs. Peter—­how happy she seemed.  There was light in that house, flowers, laughter, good fellowship.  As in his old rooms so in this new home he gathered a few of his old friends around him and some new ones, friends of this region.  In the course of a year or two he was on the very best terms of friendship with his barber around the corner, his grocer, some man who had a saloon and bowling alley in the neighborhood, his tailor, and then just neighbors.  The milkman, the coal man, the druggist and cigar man at the next corner—­all could tell you where Peter lived.  His little front “yard” had two beds of flowers all summer long, his lot in the back was a garden—­lettuce, onions, peas, beans.  Peter was always happiest when he could be home working, playing with the baby, pushing him about in a go-cart, working in his garden, or lying on the floor making something—­an engraving or print or a box which he was carving, the infant in some simple gingham romper crawling about.  He was always busy, but never too much so for a glance or a mock-threatening, “Now say, not so much industry there.  You leave my things alone,” to the child.  Of a Sunday he sat out on the front porch smoking, reading the Sunday paper, congratulating himself on his happy married life, and most of the time holding the infant.  Afternoons he would carry it somewhere, anywhere, in his arms to his friends, the Park, New York, to see me.  At breakfast, dinner, supper the heir presumptive was in a high-chair beside him.

“Ah, now, here’s a rubber spoon.  Beat with that.  It’s less destructive and less painful physically.”

“How about a nice prust” (crust) “dipped in bravery” (gravy) “—­heh?  Do you suppose that would cut any of your teeth?”