The Mouths of Babes

By Ernest Buckler

ERNEST BUCKLER lives on a farm at Bridgetown, Nova Scotia. This is his first appearance in the Atlantic.

I PROPOSE to sponsor a law which will provide severe penalties (in extreme eases, the lash) for any person or persons who encourage young children in the act of identifying their facial features. Wouldn’t the world be a far better place without scenes like the following?

MUMMY: Danny, could you show Mr. Tidd where your eyes are? (Danny looks blank.)

MR. T.: Where are your eyes, Danny? MUMMY: Come on, Danny . . . you showed me this morning. Where are your eyes?

DANNY: Here, kitty, kitty, kitty . . . Mu. T.: I don’t believe he knows where his eyes are.

MUMMY (touching Danny’s ears): Are those your eyes? (Danny strikes her hand away.)

MR. T.: He doesn’t, know where his eyes are . . . do you, Danny? MUMMY: Danny, if you show Mr. Tidd where your eyes are I might find you a piece of candy, you never can tell. (Danny tries to break away, but Mammy slaps a half nelson on him.)

MR. T. (feeling the grin he’s had to sustain these last fire minutes beg into twitch uncontrollably, and making a desperate effort to ditch, the whole project): Well, it’s certainly been an open winter, hasn’t it ?

MUMMY (absently): Hasn’t it, though? (Stamps foot at Danny in mock anger.) Danny Sprocklchurst! Where — Are — Your — Eyes? DANNY: D’ya see those two cavities in the anterior bone of the head, on either side of the septum? And d’ya see those beady little ovoids in said cavities? Well, those are my eyes. Where are yours?

Danny didn’t say that, of course. But don’t you wish some day some kid would?