He made the journey each time with a slight air of anxiety, leading the way to the wooden cradle, and standing over it like a Herculean guardian angel, listening attentively to all the comments made and all the advice given.
“She seems to be getting on pretty well, doesn’t she?” he enquired.
“Lor’, yes!” said one matron; “jest keep her kivered up ‘n’ don’t let no air strike her, ‘n’ ye won’t hev no trouble with her, I reckon.”
“No air?” enquired Tom, in some trepidation; “none at all?”
“Wal, thet’s my way,” was the answer. “Some folks does diff’rent, but I didn’t never expose ’em none till they was more’n amonth old. New-born babies is tender things!”
“Yes,” said Tom. “Good Lord, yes!”
His visitor started at him perplexedly for a moment.
“Wal,” she said. “My man allus used to say they kinder skeered him ’long at the first—he kinder felt as if they’d mebbe come apart, or sumthin’. They allus sorter ’minded me o’ young mice. Wal, you jest tell Mornin to giv’ her es much milk as she calls fer, an’ don’t let it bile too long, ‘n’ she’ll come on fine.”
The next visitor that entered uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“Ye’re gwine ter kill her!” she said. “Thar ain’t a breath o’ air in the room, ‘n’ thar ain’t nothin’ a new-born baby wants more ’n plenty o’ air. They’re tender critters, ‘n’ they cayn’t stand to be smothered up. Ye’ll hev her in spasms afore the day’s over.”