That night little Pat woke up, several times, and made things
unpleasant by his wails. On the first two occasions, I got up and
walked him about, singing impromptu lines to the tune of "weak and
wounded," but the third time, Euphemia herself arose, and declaring
that that doleful tune was a great deal worse than the baby's
crying, silenced him herself, and arranging his couch more
comfortably, he troubled us no more.
In the morning, when I beheld the little pad of orange fur in the
box, my heart almost misgave me, but as the day wore on, my courage
rose again, and I gave myself up, almost entirely, to my new
charge, composing a vast deal of blank verse, while walking him up
and down the house.
Euphemia scolded and scolded, and said she would put on her hat and
go for the mother. But I told her the mother was dead, and that
seemed to be an obstacle. She took a good deal of care of the
child, for she said she would not see an innocent creature
neglected, even if it was an incipient hod-carrier, but she did not
relax in the least in her attention to Pomona's baby.
The next day was about the same, in regard to infantile incident,
but, on the day after, I began to tire of my new charge, and Pat,
on his side, seemed to be tired of me, for he turned from me when I
went to take him up, while he would hold out his hands to Euphemia,
and grin delightedly when she took him.
That morning I drove to the village and spent an hour or two there.
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