hanging over the arm of her chair adoringly. “Dem itty wee pads are ze very tweetest handies in ze whole big world, isn’t dey, you darling itty man.”
Anne, in the months before Little Jem’s coming, had pored diligently over several wise volumes, and pinned her faith to one in especial, “Sir Oracle on the Care and Training of Children.” Sir Oracle implored parents by all they held sacred never to talk “baby talk” to their children. Infants should invariably be addressed in classical language from the moment of their birth. So should they learn to speak English undefiled from their earliest utterance. “How,” demanded Sir Oracle, “can a mother reasonably expect her child to learn correct speech, when she continually accustoms its impressionable gray matter to such absurd expressions and distortions of our noble tongue as thoughtless mothers inflict every day on the helpless creatures committed to their care? Can a child who is constantly called ‘tweet itty wee singie’ ever attain to any proper conception of his own being and possibilities and destiny?”
Anne was vastly impressed with this, and informed Gilbert that she meant to make it an inflexible rule never, under any circumstances, to talk “baby talk” to her children. Gilbert agreed with her, and they made a solemn compact on the subject—a compact which Anne shamelessly violated the very first moment Little Jem was laid in her arms. “Oh, the darling itty wee sing!” she had exclaimed. And she
