It is a queer baby, covered perhaps with reddish hair, its brow
no higher than a rat's. Its jaw protrudes; its tiny, grimy hands
clutch with monkey power all things within reach.

Along comes the father, full of plans to kill a mammoth or a cave
bear; interested in his stone-tipped club, but caring nothing for
the mother, who has been for some time only a whining nuisance.

He stops for a second to look at the small creature which he has
added to earth's animal life.

Its misshapen skull, ferret eyes, miniature shoulders--something
about it reminds him of his royal self, as studied in the pool.
He stoops to look closer. His bristly hairs are grabbed, and a
weird, insane, toothless grin lights up the little monkey face.

Then the savage takes a new view of life; there the marriage
institution and the marriage problem are born simultaneously.

Says the mammoth hunter, with whistling words and hoarse throat
sounds half articulated:

"I like this baby. He's like me. Let me hold him. Don't you go
out with him looking for food, and don't leave him alone while
I'm gone. I've got a bear located. No one can beat me killing
bears. I'll bring the bear's heart to you this evening. You can
give this baby some of the blood. It will do him good. Don't
have anything to say to that mammoth hunter in the next swamp. I
want you to stick to me. I'll look after you. I have taken a