“Oh, Joseph, do git up,” ses she, “something’s the matter with the baby.”
That was enuff for me, and in a twinklin’ I was settin’ up in the bed, as wide awake as if I hadn’t been asleep in a week.
“Look at him, Joseph—he acts so curious,” ses she, as she tuck the little feller out of his crib, and laid him down in the bed between us.
For ’bout two minits we both sot and looked at the baby, ’thout drawin’ a breth. Thar it lay on its back, with its little hands down by its side. Fust it would spread its mouth like it was laughin’ at something—then it would roll its eyes about in its bed and wink ’em at us—then it would twitch all over, and ketch its breth—then it would lay right still and stop breathin’ for a second or two, and then it would twitch its little lims agin, and roll its eyes about the strangest I ever seed anything in my life, and then it would coo, so pitiful, like a little dove, two or three times, till it would kind of smuther like, and stop breathin’ agin.
I could hear Mary’s hart beat quite plain, and I felt the cold blood runnin’ back to mine like a mill-tail. I looked at Mary, and she looked at me, and such a expression as she had in her eyes I never seed in any human.
“Joseph!” ses she.
“Mary!” ses I.
“Oh, dear!” ses she, the big tears fillin’ her butiful eyes. “Oh, dear! the baby is dyin’—I know it is. Oh, what shall we do?”
“Oh no, Mary, don’t get skeered,” ses I, with what little breth I could summons up for the effort.
“Oh yes, I know it is. I know’d something was gwine to happen, I had sich a dreadful dream last night. Git up, Joseph, and call muther and the galls, quick as you can. Oh dear me, my poor little baby!”