In the field—sowing.
While we were sitting at breakfast this morning Chloe came to the door and mysteriously beckoned to me. I rose at once and went out knowing something had happened by her tragic expression. When we were out of hearing from the dining room she said:—
"Miss Pashuns, Rab is shot 'eself."
"Good heavens, Chloe! Where is he?"
"Right to de pantry do'."
I flew out and there was Rab moaning piteously with the blood streaming from his left hand. It was no time to ask questions. I called for a basin of hot water and sent to my room for a roll of absorbent cotton and a bottle of turpentine and washed the wound, which was all burned with powder.
The missile, a jagged piece of lead, had gone straight through the hand, making a very ugly, ragged wound. How it got through the muscles, veins, and bones between the second and third finger without touching any of them is a wonder. The bleeding was not excessive. I packed the hole with cotton saturated with turpentine, both top and bottom, getting it as far into the wound as I could.
Poor little Rab behaved very well, did not scream, only the tears rolled down his very black face. After it was bound up securely, my niece fortunately having a roll of bandages with her, I asked him how it happened. He said he was playing with the plantation musket, trying to get out a piece of lead that was in it. He had the palm of his hand over the muzzle when he moved the trigger, with this result.
I did not scold him; what was the use? All my efforts to give him healthy and satisfying amusement and occupation in the boat have been in vain. He will not go with old Tinny, nor to fish at all unless Dab leaves his work to go with him. He is too weak to do any work, and there is nothing that he can be persuaded to do but play with some firearm.
Dab has done wonderfully well, for the house, of which I am generally the sole occupant, is now quite full, and Dab has the dining room work, which he does beautifully. He has confided to Chloe his disappointment about Rab. I have been terribly disappointed myself, but tried not to write about it, indeed I have tried to ignore it altogether. The child has been ill and got somewhat spoiled, as all sick people do who have any kind of good nursing, and then he is so weak and miserable now. Two days ago Dab rushed into the kitchen in great excitement and said: "An' Chloe, Rab is de very debil self! Not de debil son, nor him brudder, but him very self."