LETTER X.

Pineville, Ga., March 21st, 1844. Dear Sir,

You mustn’t think hard cause I hain’t rit you a letter for so long a time. Sense the arrival of the little stranger, my time what I’ve had to spare from the plantation is been pretty much tuck up with nussin’ and gwine to town after doctor stuff for it.

Babys is wundrous supprisin’ things, Mr. Thompson, as you know, and when one thinks how much trouble they give a body, we almost wunder what makes us so anxious to have ’em. You mustn’t think I’m beginnin’ to git tired of mine. No indeed, not by no means. I wouldn’t give my little Harry Clay for all the niggers and plantations in Georgy, as much trouble and worryment as he gives me. Ain’t it curious what store we do set by the little creeters, even before we’ve had ’em long enuff to know anything about ’em. It seems like a new fountin of happyness is opened in our harts, a new value given to everything we’ve got, and a new purpose to our lives, when for the fust time we look upon a little helpless bein’ that is born of our love, and is dependent on us for support and protection. How anxious we is to do everything we can for ’em! What pleasure we find in the pains we take to make ’em happy. But you is a man of experience in these matters, Mr. Thompson, and I needn’t tell you nothin’ abou’ it. I must tell you though, what a terrible skeer we had t’other night with the baby.

I had been down to Tom Stallinses mill, to see about gittin’ out some lumber to bild me a new gin-house, and had been ridin’ and workin’ hard all day in the wet, and cum home monstrous tired, late in the evenin’. Mary and the baby was all well, and I went to bed pretty early, thinkin’ to git a good nite’s rest for the fust time in a month. Well, how long I’d been sleepin’, I can’t tell, but the fust thing I know’d was Mary pullin’ my hair to make me wake up.

“Joseph!—Joseph!” ses she.

“Ha! what’s the matter?” ses I, when I seed her leanin’ over in the bed with the lamp in her hand, and her face as pale as the gown she had on.

“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!”

“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.

The old woman put on her specticles, and looked at it, and felt it all over, while Mary was holdin’ it in her lap by the fire.

“Don’t be skared,” ses she. “Don’t be skared, my child, maybe it’s nothing but the hives, or the yaller thrash, or some other baby ailment, what won’t hurt it.”

“Oh, it’ll dy—I know it will,” ses Mary.

“Maybe its only sick at its little stummick, muther,” ses sister Carline, “and some sut tea is the best thing in the world for that, they say.”

“And if it’s the thrash, some catnip tea will drive it out in half a ower,” ses the old woman. “Prissy, make some catnip tea, quick as you can.”

“And have some water warmed to bathe its little feet in,” ses sister Kesiah; “for maybe its spasomy.”

“Oh dear, see how it winks its eyes!” ses Mary.

“That ain’t nothing uncommon, dear,” ses her muther.

“Now it’s twitchin’ its little lims again. Oh, it will dy, I know it will.”

“Wouldn’t some saffron tea be good for it?” ses Miss Carline. “Poor little dear!”

“Yes, and a musterd poultice for its little bowels,” ses the old woman.

By this time all the niggers on the place was up gettin’ hot-baths, and teas, and musterd poultices, and ingun-juice, and Lord knows what all, for the baby. Muther and the galls was flyin’ about like they was crazy, and I was so tarrified myself that I didn’t know which eend I stood on. In the hurryment and confusion, Aunt Katy upsot the tea-kittle and scalded little Moses, and he sot up a yell in the kitchin loud enuff to be heard a mile, and I knocked the lamp off the table, and spilled the oil all everything, tryin’ to turn round three ways at the same time. After breakin’ two or three cups and sassers, and settin’ Mary’s night-cap afire with the candle, old Miss Stallins made out to git a tea-spoonful of sut tea in the baby’s mouth, hot enuff to scald its life out, and then ther was such another to-do as nobody ever did hear before.

“Wa!—wa-ya!—ke-wa!—ke-wa-ah!” went the baby.

“Good gracious! mother, the tea’s bilin’ hot,” ses sister Carline.

“My lord! Prissy, hain’t you got no better sense? What upon yeath did you give it to me so hot for?” ses the old woman when she put her finger in the cup.

“Miss Kesiah tell me pour bilin’ water on it,” ses Prissy, with her eyes as big as sassers.

“Wa-ya! ke-wa-ah! ke-wa!” ses the baby, kickin’ and fistin’ away like all rath.

“Whar’s the draps, Joseph? Git the draps, it must be colicky,” ses old Miss Stallins.

I got the parrygorrick as quick as I could, and tried to pour out five draps, as she told me. But my hand trimbled so I couldn’t drap it to save me.

“Give it to me, Joseph,” ses she; “you’s too agitated.”

And she tuck the vial, and poured half of it on her lap, tryin’ to hit the spoon—the poor old woman’s eyes is so bad. Then she told sister Carline to drap it—but both the galls was ’fraid they mought pour too much. So Mary had to do it herself. Then the next difficulty was to git it in the baby’s mouth, and when they did git it thar, it liked to choke it to deth before it could swaller it.

Pretty soon after that it got quiet, and went sound to sleep in Mary’s lap, and we all begun to feel a good deal better. Old Miss Stallins sed she know’d what it wanted as soon as she had time to think, and she wondered she didn’t think of it before. Lord only know’d what mought happened if we hadn’t the parrygorrick in the house. We all felt so good after we got over our skare, that we sot thar and congratulated one another a little while before gwine to bed agin.

While we was all chattin’ and old Miss Stallins was beginnin’ to nod, I noticed Mary was watchin’ the baby monstrous close, and her eyes was beginnin’ to git bigger and bigger, as she looked at its face. Bimeby it groaned one of the longest kind of groans.

“Oh dear!” ses Mary, “I do b’lieve it’s dyin’ agin!”

We all jumped up and run to her, and shure enuff, it looked a heap worse than it did before, and kep’ all the time moanin’ like it was breathin’ its last gasp.

“Oh, mother, its gwine! It’s jest as limber as a rag, and it’s got sich a terrible deth look. Send for the docter, quick,” ses Mary, trimblin’ all over, and lookin’ as if she was gwine to faint in her cheer.

Miss Carline tuck hold of its little hands, and moved ’em, but they was jest like a ded baby’s, and staid anywhar she put ’em.

Ned was sent to town for Doctor Gaiter, as hard as the hoss could go—Mary and the galls all fell a-cryin’ like they was at a funerel, and I felt so fainty myself that I couldn’t hardly stand on my feet. Old Miss Stallins would give the baby some ingin-juice, and have it put in a warm bath all over; but nothing we could do for it done it any good, and we jest had to wait in a agony of suspense ’til the doctor cum.

It ain’t only three miles to town, and Selim’s one of the fastest hosses in Georgia, but it seemed like the docter would never cum.

“Poor little thing!” ses Mary; “I know’d my hart was sot on him too much—I know’d it was too pretty and sweet to live. Oh, dear!”

“How it does suffer—poor little angel,” ses Miss Carline; “what kin ail the child?”

“I wish the docter would cum,” ses all of ’em.

Sich thoughts as I had in that ower, I never want to have agin, as long as I live. A coffin, with a little baby in its shroud, was all the time before my eyes, and a whole funeral procession was passin’ through my hed. The sermon was ringin’ in my ears, and I could almost hear the rumblin’ of the fust shovelful of yeath on the grave boards of my little boy, as I walked round and round the room, stoppin’ now and then to take a look at the pore little thing, and to speak a word of incouragement to Mary. It was a dredful feelin’ Mr. Thompson, and I do b’lieve I’ve felt ten years older ever sense.

Bimeby we heard the hosses feet—all of us drawed a long breth, and every face brightened up at the sound. In a minit more the docter laid his saddle-bags on the table.

“Good evenin’, ladies,” ses he, jest as pleasin’ and perlite as if nothing wasn’t the matter. “Good evenin’, Majer; how are you this—”

“The baby! the baby!” ses all of ’em. “Docter, can’t you cure the baby?”

“Yes, docter,” ses Mary, “our only hope is in you, docter.”

“And Providence, my child,” ses old Miss Stallins.

It seemed like the docter never would git all his grate-coats, and gloves, and hankerchers off, though the wimmin was hurryin’ him and helpin’ him all they could. Bimeby he drawed a cheer up to whar Mary was sittin’ to look at the baby.

“What’s the matter with yer child, Mrs. Jones?” ses he, pullin’ away its gown and feelin’ its pulse.

“I don’t know, docter; but it’s dredful sick,” ses Mary.

“When was it tuck sick, and what is its simptoms?” ses the docter.

All of ’em begun to tell at once, ’til the docter told ’em he could understand ’em better if they’d only talk one at a time, and then Mary told him all about it.

“And how much parrygorrick did you give it?” ses Docter Gaiter.

“Five draps,” ses old Miss Stallins, “I wanted to give it more, but the children was all so skeery.”

“Let me see your parrygorrick,” ses the docter.

He tuck it and smelled it, and tasted it, and then, says he:

“You’re sure you didn’t give it only five draps, Madam?”

“No, no more’n five,” ses Mary, “for I poured it out myself.”

Then the docter looked monstrous wise at the baby, for ’bout a minit, and if you could jest seed the wimmin lookin’ at him. None of us breathed a single breth, and poor Mary looked rite in the docter’s face, as if she wanted to see his very thoughts.

“Doc—”

“Is—”

“Don’t be ’larmed, Madam,” ses he, “ther ain’t no danger!”

Sich a change as cum over the crowd! The room seemed to git lighter in a instant. It was like the sunlight breakin’ through a midnight sky.

Mary cried like a child, and hugged her baby to her bussum, and kissed it a dozen times, and talked baby talk to it; and the galls begun puttin’ the room to rights, so it would be fit for the docter to see it.

“Is you sure ther ain’t no danger, docter?” ses old Miss Stallins.

“None in the least, Madam,” ses he. “Ther’s nothing in the world the matter of the child, only it had a little touch of the hives, what made it laugh and roll its eyes about in its sleep. In your fright, you burnt its mouth with yer hot teas, till it cried a little, and then you’ve doctered it with hot baths, ingin-juice, and parrygorrick, till you’ve stupified it a little. That’s all, Madam. By mornin’ it’ll be well as ever it was, if you don’t give it no more big doses of parrygorrick.”

“I sed so,” ses old Miss Stallins. “I told the child ther was no use in takin’ on so ’bout the baby. But young people is so easy skeered, you know, docter.”

“Yes, and old grandmothers too, sumtimes,” ses he, laughin’.

The baby soon quit moanin’ so bad, and Mary laid it in the bed and kiver’d it over with kisses.

“Bless it, mudder’s tweetest ’ittle darlin’ baby—its dittin’ well, so it is—and dey sant dive it no more natty fisies, and burn its tweet ’ittle mouf no more, so dey sant,” ses she; and the galls got round, and sich a everlastin’ gabblement as they did keep up.

By this time it was most daylight, and after drinkin’ a cup of strong coffee what old Miss Stallins had made for him, and laughin’ at us for bein’ so skared at nothing, the good old docter bundled on his clothes, and went home to charge me five dollars for routin’ him out of his bed and makin’ him ride six miles in the cold. But I ain’t sorry we sent for him, for I do b’lieve if he hadn’t cum, we would dosed poor little Harry ded as a door nail before mornin’. The little feller is doin’ prime now, and if he was to have another attack of the hives, I’ll take monstrous good care they don’t give him no more dratted parrygorrick. So no more from

Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones.