Conrad's M. Would, Conrad, that you were of riper years,
So you might share your Mother's joy to-day,
The day that crowns her long and arduous toil
As one of London's County Councillors!

Conrad. Nay, speak; for though my mind be immature,
One topic still can charm my infant ear,
That ever craves the oft-repeated tale.
I love to hear of that august assembly

C.'s M. (gratified). Learn, Conrad, then, that, after many months
Of patient "lobbying" (you've heard the term?)
The measure by my foresight introduced
Has triumphed by a bare majority!

Con. My bosom thrills with dutiful delight—
Although I yet for information wait
As to the scope and purpose of the statute.

C.'s M. You show an interest so intelligent
That well deserves it should be satisfied,
Be seated, Conrad, at your Mother's knee,
And you shall hear the full particulars.
You know how zealously I advocate
The sacred cause of Nursery Reform?
How through my efforts every infant's toys
Are carefully inspected once a month——?

Con. (wearily). Nay, Mother, you forget—I have no toys.

C.'s M. Which brings you under the exemption clause.
But—to resume; how Nursery Songs and Tales
Must now be duly licensed by our Censor,
And any deviation from the text
Forbidden under heavy penalties?
All that you know. Well; with concern of late,
I have remarked among our infancy
The rapid increase of a baneful habit
On which I scarce can bring my tongue to dwell.

Con. (with growing uneasiness). But how can statutes check such practices?

C.'s M. (patting his head). Right shrewdly questioned, boy! I come to that.
Some timid sentimentalists advised
Compulsory restraint in woollen gloves,
Or the deterrent aid of bitter aloes.
I saw the evil had too deep a seat
To yield to such half-hearted remedies.
No; we must cut, ere we could hope to cure!
Nay, interrupt me not; my Bill appoints
A new official, by the style and title
Of "London County Council Scissorman,"
For the detection of young "suck-a-thumbs."

Con. (hiding his face in his Mother's lap.) Ah, Mother, see!... the scissors!... On the blind!

C.'s M. Why, how you tremble! You've no cause to fear.
The shadow of his grim insignia
Should have no terror—save for thumb-suckers.

Con. And what for them?

C.'s M. (complacently). A doom devised by me—
The confiscation of the culprit thumbs.
Thus shall our statute cure while it corrects,
For those who have no thumbs can err no more.

C.'s M. Who knocks so loud at such an hour as this?

A Voice. Open, I charge ye. In the Council's name!

C.'s M. 'Tis the Official Red-legged Scissorman,
Who doubtless calls to thank me for the post.

Con. (with a gloomy determination). More like his business, Madam, is with—Me!

C.'s M. (suddenly enlightened). A Suck-a-thumb? ... you, Conrad?

C. (desperately). Ay,—from birth!

The S. (in a passionless tone). Though sorry to create unpleasantness,
I claim the thumbs of this young gentleman,
Which these own eyes have marked between his lips.

C.'s M. (frantically). Thou minion of a meddling tyranny,
Go exercise thy loathsome trade elsewhere!

The S. (civilly). I've duties here that must be first performed.

C.'s M. (wildly). Take my two thumbs for his!

The S. 'Tis not the law—
Which is a model of lucidity.

Con. (calmly). Sir, you speak well. My thumbs are forfeited,
And they alone must pay the penalty.

The S. (with approval). Right! Step with me into the outer hall,
And have the business done without delay.

C.'s M. (throwing herself between them.) Stay, I'm a
Councillor—this law was mine!
Hereby I do suspend the clause I drew.

The S. You should have drawn it milder.

Con. Must I teach
A parent laws were meant to be obeyed?
[To Sc.] Lead on, Sir. (To his Mother with cold courtesy.) Madam,—may I trouble you?

C.'s M. They send him back to me, bereft of both!
My Conrad! What?—repulse a Mother's Arms!

Con. (with chilling composure). Yes, Madam, for between us ever more,
A barrier invisible is raised,
And should I strive to reach those arms again,
Two spectral thumbs would press me coldly back—
The thumbs I sucked in blissful ignorance,
The thumbs that solaced me in solitude,
The thumbs your County Council took from me,
And your endearments scarcely will replace!
Where, Madam, lay the sin in sucking them?
The dog will lick his foot, the cat her claw,
His paws sustain the hibernating bear—
And you decree no law to punish them!
Yet, in your rage for infantine reform,
You rushed this most ridiculous enactment—
Its earliest victim—your neglected son!

C.'s M. (falling at his feet). Say, Conrad, you will some day pardon me?

Con. (bitterly, as he regards his maimed hands.) Aye—on the day these pollards send forth shoots!