Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead:
Keeping the star afore me, I went wharever it led.
It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and nigh,
Out of the yearth afore me thar riz up a baby’s cry.
Listen! thar’s the same music; but her lungs they are stronger now
Than the day I packed her and her mother,—I’m derned if I jest know how.
But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o’ the whole thing is
That Cis. never knew what happened from that very night to this!
But Cicely says you’re a poet, and maybe you might, some day,
Jest sling her a rhyme ’bout a baby that was born in a curious way,