“That won't do,” I said. “It certainly had socks on, when I got it. I saw them.”
“Here they are,” said Jonas, fishing them out from the shawl, “he's kicked them off.”
“Well, we must put them on,” I said, “it won't do to take him in, that way. You hold him.”
So Jonas sat down on the feed-box, and carefully taking little Pat, he held him horizontally, firmly pressed between his hands and knees, with his feet stuck out toward me, while I knelt down before him and tried to put on the little socks. But the socks were knit or worked very loosely, and there seemed to be a good many small holes in them, so that Pat's funny little toes, which he kept curling up and uncurling, were continually making their appearance in unexpected places through the sock. But, after a great deal of trouble, I got them both on, with the heels in about the right places.
“Now they ought to be tied on,” I said, “Where are his garters?”
“I don't believe babies have garters,” said Jonas, doubtfully, “but I could rig him up a pair.”
“No,” said I; “we wont take the time for that. I'll hold his legs apart, as I carry him in. It's rubbing his feet together that gets them off.”
As I passed the kitchen window, I saw Pomona at work. She looked at me, dropped something, and I heard a crash. I don't know how much that crash cost me. Jonas rushed in to tell Pomona about it, and in a moment I heard a scream of laughter. At this, Euphemia appeared at an upper window, with her hand raised and saying, severely: “Hush-h!” But the moment she saw me, she disappeared from the window and came down-stairs on the run. She met me, just as I entered the dining-room.
“What IN the world!” she breathlessly exclaimed.
“This,” said I, taking Pat into a better position in my arms, “is my baby.”