Australian Tales - Setis

Little Strangers.
LIVES there an honest old patriarch in Christendom, whose
memory — though dead to ordinary bygone events — has not
occasional, softening recollections of the joyful hour, when his tiny firstborn,
the beloved child of his blossoming manhood, announced its entrée
to his household by a lamb-like cry, which vibrated through his bounding
heart, like strains of music from the better land?
I would not venture — if I were not at leisure — to put that question to
a young benedict, the owner of a tender heart as well as a tender infant,
because he would almost certainly bother me with a minute description
of the “precious poppet,” with eyes like jewels, and hair silk, together
with all the funny ways of his precocious offspring, which, though not
much bigger than a quart pot, he believes to be the finest child in the
parish, because the experienced old nurse told him so. Not that I would
condemn him for exhibiting feeling, which, as his heart is tender, he
cannot avoid doing; quite the contrary. I am always prepared for the
excited partiality which every honest young father feels for his offspring,
because it is so natural; indeed, I would rather see it verge on the absurd
than towards the stony stoicism which some affect, under the
contemptible notion that it is unmanly to talk about little babies. I should
not condemn him, even if he talked positive nonsense — I generally try
to keep in mind my own bygone weaknesses — still I should not care to
hear much of his extravagant dilation on his new-gotten treasure; because
it soon becomes tiresome.
But I dearly love to hear an old man talk about the days of yore, when
his children were young, even though he should be over garrulous. I am
fond of old boys and girls, especially when they can be merry and wise
too. It titillates my fancy as much as the pages of Punch, to see a greyheaded
old grandsire initiating his merry young sprouts in the art of
“knuckling down” at “shoot in the ring,” or peg-top; or to see his
venerable spouse playing a game of innocent romps with a lot of
laughing little grand-daughters, while her time-wrinkled countenance
glistens like a ginger-bread queen, showing that her heart is full of good
humour and love. I would rather have a romp with them any day than go
to a review.
I have before my mind's eye at this moment a frosty-browed old boy,
whom I know well. Though some folks think he is a moody old fellow,