“Don’t take on, Mary—maybe ’taint nothin’ bad,” ses I, tryin’ to compose her all I could, though I was scared as bad as she was, and put my trowsers on wrong side before in my hurryment.
In a minit I had all the fam’ly up, and by the time I got the fire kindled, here cum old Miss Stallins and the galls, all in ther nite clothes, skeered almost out of ther senses.
“Dear me, what upon yeath’s the matter?” ses old Miss Stallins.
“Oh, the baby! the baby!” cried Mary.
“What is happened?” ses all of ’em, getherin’ round the bed.
“I don’t know what ails it,” ses Mary, “but it acts so strange—like it was gwine to dy.”
“Mercy on us!” ses the galls.
“Don’t take on so, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins. “It mought be very bad for you.”
But poor Mary didn’t think of anything but the baby.
“What’s good for it, muther? what’ll cure it?” ses she.