“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.”