CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
THE TROUBLES OF A DAWDLER.
I was born a dawdler.

As an infant, if report speaks truly, I dawdled over my food, over my toilet, and over my slumbers.

Nothing (so I am told) could prevail on me to stick steadily to my bottle till it was done; but I must needs break off a dozen times in the course of a single meal to stare about me, to play with the strings of my nurse's cap, to speculate on the sunbeams that came in at the window; and even when I did bring myself to make the effort, I took such an unconscionable time to consume a spoonful that the next meal was wellnigh due before I had made an end of a first.
As to dressing me in the morning, it took a good two hours.

Not that I rebelled and went on strike over the business, but it was really too much of an effort to commit first one foot and then the other for the reception of my socks, and when that operation was accomplished a long interval always elapsed before I could devote my energy to the steering of my arms into sleeves, and the disposal of my waist to the adjustment of a sash.

Indeed, I believe I am doing myself more than justice when I put forward two hours as the time spent in personal decoration during those tender years.
But of all my infant duties the one I dawdled over most was going to sleep.