Imagination .. . some philosophers think everything is a figment of people's imagination--or would it be figments? Figments, pigments, pudding and pie; babies are cute, but they sure do cry. And here I was back on the subject of babies again. The ringing at the other end of the line stopped (although the ringing in my head continued) and the doctor himself answered. I said, "I'm calling Dr. Kildare! I mean--" I laughed apologetically, "I'm calling Dr. Adams. Is this Dr. Adams?" When he gave me a curt, affirmative reply, obviously bored with what he considered my facetiousness, I told him what was going on; and he said he'd be over at once. By that time Grant, having convinced the man that we hadn't found his toupee, came back into the living room, and I told him about the impending blessed event. His complexion took on a hue to match mine and that of the skinny boy. "I've called the doctor," I said. "What do we do in the meantime?" Grant, the ever resourceful, the maddeningly efficient, was stymied for once. "Well..." he said uncertainly. "That's how I feel about it," I said. "But we can't just--sit here." "You're a woman," Grant pointed out cruelly, passing the buck to me. "You've had two babies." "Yes," I came back at him, "but I just had them--I didn't deliver them." "Well, you won't have to deliver these either. I mean, this one. The doctor will be here in a few minutes." "I know, but--what about in the meantime?" "Well," Grant said uneasily, "I suppose you should go in once and see how she's getting along. Maybe you can give her some aspirin or something." "Aspirin!" I snorted. Donna was playing contentedly in the bedroom, stacking blocks, knocking them over, and stacking them up again. David was outside adding another worn-out baby blanket to the bed he had made in the garage of cabin 6 for his new black cat. With the children occupied, and the dinner dishes done, obviously I couldn't claim any pressing domestic duties. "Well... come on," I said. The door of cabin 3 had never looked so forbidding. While we were standing in front of it, wondering whether or not to knock, little Eugene brushed past us and opened it. He went to stand beside the bed, where he looked from his mother to us with big, dark eyes. "You had the baby yit?" he asked her anxiously. "You don't see it nowheres, do you?" Grant and I edged into the cabin. "How do you do," I said. "We heard--that is, your son said--you were--well, having a little difficulty." "That ain't the half of it, honey," the woman remarked, biting her lower lip until there was a row of neat little white teeth marks printed upon it.