“Here comes Pablôt,” she called back into the room, “and he is carrying the child in his arms.”
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” breathed Uncle Pablôt, drawing close. “Take your son gently into your arms; he has been sleeping bravely all the way from his grandparents’. And here,” said Uncle Pablôt, “is his little silver whistle, by which I hope that he will remember me when he wakes up and finds me gone.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
- Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.