XLIV
You know they's men 'at bees won't sting?—They's plaguey few,—but Doc
He's one o' them.—And same, i jing! with childern;—they jes flock
Round Sifers natchurl!—in his lap, and in his pockets, too,
And in his old fur mitts and cap, and heart as warm and true!
XLV
It's cur'ous, too,—'cause Doc hain't got no childern of his own—
'Ceptin' the ones he's tuk and brought up, 'at's bin left alone.
And orphans when their father died, er mother,—and Doc he
Has he'pped their dyin' satisfied.—"The child shall live with me
XLVI
"And Winniferd, my wife," he'd say, and stop right there, and cle'r
His th'oat, and go on thinkin' way some mother-hearts down here
Can't never feel their own babe's face a-pressin' 'em, ner make
Their naked breasts a restin'-place fer any baby's sake.
