"Where's dad going with that ax?" said Stan to his mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.

"Out to the nursery," replied Sharon. "Some babies were born last night."

"I don't see why he needs an ax," continued Stan, who was only eight. "Well," said his mother, "one of the babies is a runt. It's very small and weak, and it will never amount to anything. So your father has decided to do away with it."

"Do away with it?" shrieked Stan. "You mean kill it? Just because it's smaller than the others?"

Sharon put a pitcher of cream on the table. "Don't yell, Stanley!" she said. "Your father is right. The baby would probably die anyway."

Stan pushed a chair out of the way and ran outdoors. The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Stan's sneakers were sopping by the time he caught up with his father.

"Please don't kill it!" he sobbed. "It's unfair."

Randy stopped walking.

"Stan," he said gently, "you will have to learn to control yourself."

"Control myself?" yelled Stan. "This is a matter of life and death, and you talk about controlling myself." Tears ran down his cheeks and he took hold of the ax and tried to pull it out of his father's hand.

"Stan," said Randy, "I know more about raising an infant than you do. A weakling makes trouble. Now run along!"

"But it's unfair," cried Stan. "The baby couldn't help being born small, could it? If I had been very small at birth, would you have killed me?"

Randy smiled. "Certainly not," he said, looking down at his son with love. "But this is different. A little boy is one thing, a little runty baby is another."

"I see no difference," replied Stan, still hanging on to the ax. "This is the most terrible case of injustice I ever heard of."

A queer look came over Randy's face. He seemed almost ready to cry himself.

"All right," he said. "You go back to the house and I will bring the runt when I come in. I'll let you start it on a bottle, like a baby. Then you'll see what trouble a baby can be."

When Randy returned to the house half an hour later, he carried a carton under his arm. Stan was upstairs changing his sneakers. The kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove.

"Put it on his chair!" said Sharon. Randy set the carton down at Stan's place. Then he walked to the sink and washed his hands and dried them on the roller towel.

Stan came slowly down the stairs. His eyes were red from crying. As he approached his chair, the carton wobbled, and there was a scratching noise. Stan looked at his father. Then he lifted the lid of the carton. There, inside, looking up at him, was the newborn baby. It had blond hair. The morning light shone through its eyes, turning them green.

"He's yours," said Randy. "Saved from an untimely death. And may the good Lord forgive me for this foolishness."

Stan couldn't take his eyes off the tiny baby. "Oh," he whispered. "Oh, look at him! He's absolutely perfect."

He closed the carton carefully. First he kissed his father, then he kissed his mother. Then he opened the lid again, lifted the baby out, and held it against his cheek. At this moment his sister Shelley came into the room. Shelley was twelve. She was heavily armed - an air rifle in one hand, a wooden dagger in the other.

"What's that?" she demanded. "What's Stan got?"

"He's got a guest for breakfast," said Sharon. "Wash your hands and face, Shelley."

"Let's see it!" said Shelley, setting her gun down. "You call that miserable thing a baby? That's a fine specimen of a baby - it's no bigger than a fat child."

"Wash up and eat your breakfast, Shelley!" said her mother. "The school bus will be along in half an hour."

"Can I have a baby, too, dad?" asked Shelley.

"No, I only distribute babies to early risers," said Randy. "Stan was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result, he now has a baby. A small one, to be sure, but nevertheless a baby. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly. Let's eat!"

But Stan couldn't eat until his baby had had a drink of milk. Sharon found a baby's nursing bottle and a rubber nipple. She poured warm milk into the bottle, fitted the nipple over the top, and handed it to Stan. "Give him his breakfast!" she said.

A minute later, Stan was seated on the floor in the corner of the kitchen with his infant between his knees, teaching it to suck from the bottle. The baby, although tiny, had a good appetite and caught on quickly.

The school bus honked from the road.

"Run!" commanded Sharon, taking the baby from Stan and slipping a doughnut into his hand. Shelley grabbed her gun and another doughnut.

The children ran out to the road and climbed into the bus. Stan took no notice of the others in the bus. He just sat and stared out of the window, thinking what a blissful world it was and how lucky he was to have entire charge of a baby. By the time the bus reached school, Stan had named his friend, selecting the most beautiful name he could think of.

"It's name is Tweek," he whispered to himself.

He was still thinking about the boy when Mr. Garrison said: "Stan, what is the capital of Pennsylvania?"

"Tweek," said Stan, dreamily. The pupils giggled. Stan blushed.