OU may think it a very simple thing to wash a baby. You may imagine that one feels quite calm and composed, while this operation is being faithfully and conscientiously performed. That shows how little you know. When I tell you that there are four distinct, delicate chins, to be dodgingly manipulated, between frantic little crying spells, and as many little rolls of fat on the back of the neck, that have to be searched out and bathed, with all the endearing baby-talk you can command, the while, as a blind to your merciless intentions; when I tell you that of all things, baby won't have her ears or nose meddled with, and that she resents any infringement on her toes with shrill outbreaks, and that it takes two people to open her chubby little fists, when water seeks to penetrate her palms. When I tell you the masterly strategy that has to be used to get one stiff, little, rebellious arm out of a cambric sleeve, and the frantic kickings which accompany any attempts to tie on her little red worsted-shoe; when I tell you that she objects altogether to be turned over on her stomach, in order to tie the strings of her frock, and that she is just as mad when you lay her on her back; when I inform you that she can stiffen herself out when she likes, so that you can't possibly make her sit down, and at another time will curl herself up in a circle, so that you can't possibly straighten her out; and when you enumerate the garments that have to be got off, and got on, before this process is finally concluded, and that it is to be done before a baking fire, without regard to the state of the thermometer, or the agonized dew on your brow; when I inform you that every now and then you must stop in the process, to see that she is not choking, or strangling, or that you have not dislocated any of her funny little legs, or arms, or injured her bobbing little head, you can form some idea of the relief when the last string is tied, and baby emerges from this, her daily misery, into a state of rosy, diamond-eyed, scarlet-lipped, content; looking sweet and fresh as a rosebud, and drowsing off in your arms with quivering white eyelids and pretty unknown murmurings of the little half-smiling lips, while the perfect little waxen hands lie idly by her side. Ah me! how shall one keep from spoiling a baby? Ah! how can one ever give brimming enough love-measure—to this—the motherless.