On we goes, Magpie limping and swearing every time he kicks a tie, and the world getting darker and darker every step we take.
Babies ain’t got much sense, I reckon. Mostly any person or animal that creeps, crawls or walks will pine for a thing for a certain length of time, and, when it don’t show in a reasonable period of pining, they forgets it; but a baby gets one idea in its bosom and cherishes said idea forever and ever, amen.
This one is too young for us to explain things to, and the night is too dark for us to hand it anything in sign-language; so we pilgrims along, listening to it wail continuous for something to ease its stummick. Pretty soon Magpie stops.
“Ike,” says he severe-like, “you’ve got to find something to feed to this infant. The blamed thing must be plumb empty, to wail thataway, and I won’t poke along and let it die in my arms.”
“I’ve got forty-three dollars, Magpie,” says I, “and I hereby gives you power of attorney to take my property to dinner. I’m neither a wet-nurse nor a restaurant.”
We pikes along for a while, baby wailing copiously. Then Magpie says—
“Wonder if singing would help it any?”
“Might as well wish for condensed milk,” says I.
“I might sing a little,” says he apologetic-like.
“Yes,” says I. “You might. You never have—not in my hearing, Magpie. Even if your vocal efforts would please the child, it would be a heap nerve racking to me; so I votes in favor of the infant solo.”