This was my fool-brain a-ravin'; I couldn't be behavin'
For th' fever to my guts was eatin' in;
But her hand upon th' pillo' was like foam upon th' billo',
When she spoke t' us of One who pardon'd sin.
Lord, how th' fever got 'em! Lord, how th' Doctors fought 'em!
How them Sisters stood th' racket night an' day:
Talk of Angils? Up in heaven don't believe as you'd find Seven
Could beat them a-makin' plasters, or beat 'em on the Pray!
Well, one mornin' when I waken I see th' next bed taken
By a feller, as was ravin' like a loon;
Sich a face! All hair an' blotches (th' kind th' fever scotches)——
An' I says, says I: "His Nibs'll ketch you soon!"
If they'd fine-tooth-combed creation f'r my personal elation
To rake in a friend an' leave him lyin' there,
Why, they couldn't a-done better with a Dawson lawyer's letter,
F'r'twas JIM beneath th' blotches an' th' hair!
He was ravin', he was mutterin'; he was swearin', he was stutterin';
Sister Mary trippin' round him like a little drift o' snow,
An' she hovered as a dove might with flutterin' wings of white light,
So softly that you'd wonder did she come or did she go?
One night, I wasn't sleepin'—Sister Mary night watch keepin',
Jim, weak as a babby, lyin' there upon th' bed,
Says: "Sister,—you remind me—of a—Girl—I left behind me"——
She gev' a little shiver, sayin': "Hsh! that—Girl is—dead!"
Then I he'erd old Jim a-gaspin'—her han's his han's was claspin',
Callin' "Mary, Oh, God, Mary!" eyes a-bulgin' in his head;
She was lookin' down at him, but she on'y whisper'd "J—im!"
But her face was like the face of some one dead.
The'r han's was locked a minute—ther' wasn't no wrong in it——
They spoke no words, but eyes looked into eyes——
Then, without a word of talkin' she went, like one sleep-walkin',
An' I he'erd Jim groanin' tur'ble 'twixt his sighs.
But nex' mornin' little Sister hikes along with a big blister,
Jest as dinky an' as smilin' as before;
But Jim? he lay there blinkin', I guess he was a-thinkin'
How them little fingers trimbled takin' down his fever score.
Doc. said old Jim was dyin'. That night I he'erd him sighin',
An' he up an' says: "Say, Pard, when I'm—at rest——
Will you see this—little locket—goes with me—in the pocket
Of the heart that's lyin' broken—in my breast?"