The child was lying, with head bent, hanging by its own weight, so incapable was the wasted neck of sustaining it. But when I was going to take his arm to take the pulse, he sprang up like a lion, open-mouthed, to bite my hand. “What is that for?” I asked the mother. “Ah, sir,” said she, “he thought you were going to dress his blisters. He always does that when we go to dress them, and we are obliged to hold him.”