But when this abnormal nuisance is found,
a peevish, fretful child--a child who is always wanting to taste, a
child who ignores the admirable purposes for which pocket-handkerchiefs
were designed, such an _enfant terrible_ as he who told the kindly
mother, offering to bring her 'Gustus to join him in his play, that "if
you bring your 'Gustus here I shall make a slit in him with my new
knife, and let out his sawdust"--when, I repeat, we come in contact with
such an obnoxious precocity as this, what word can describe him so
satisfactorily as the monosyllable--_brat_?
More detestable, because more powerful to do hurt, and with less excuse
for doing it, is _the Blab_; the unctuous, tattling Blab, who creeps to
your side with words softer than butter, but having war in his heart; he
"always thought that Sam Smith was such a friend of yours, and" (hardly
waiting for your "So he is") "was surprised and rather disgusted by his
remarks at the Club last Thursday." And then he tells you something
which, for a moment, and until principle prevails over passion, suggests
the removal by violence of several of Sam's teeth, and he leaves you
distressed and distrustful, until you discover, as you most probably
will, that there has been cruel misrepresentation. Ah, if poor
Jeannette's desire were realised, and they who make the quarrels were
the only men to fight, how nice it would be to sit upon an eminence and
watch the Battle of the Blabs!
There was a battle once on a small scale, the only rational duel ever
fought, in which a brace of Blabs were sweetly discomfited.
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