Though the child dwindled, day by day, and, at the end of a month, looked like a little old man, yet they still stood by the distinguished author.
Fortunately, they both went off, one day, and left the child with Sister "Sarah," who thought she would make an experiment and see what a child's stomach could hold, as she had grave doubts about the tablespoonful theory.

To her surprise the baby took a pint bottle full of milk, and had the sweetest sleep thereon he had known in his earthly career.

After that he was permitted to take what he wanted, and "the author" was informed of his libel on the infantile stomach.
So here, again, I was entirely afloat, launched on the seas of doubt without chart or compass.

The life and well-being of the race seemed to hang on the slender thread of such traditions as were handed down by-ignorant mothers and nurses.

One powerful ray of light illuminated the darkness; it was the work of Andrew Combe on "Infancy." He had, evidently watched some of the manifestations of man in the first stages of his development, and could tell, at least, as much of babies as naturalists could of beetles and bees.