The whole o’ this back yard is full o’ glory this minute. Th’ ain’t nothin’ too low down an’ mean for it to shine on, neither—not even the well-pump or the cattle-trough—’r the pig-pen—or even me.
Thess look at me, covered over with it! An’ how it does shine on the roof o’ the house where they lay—her an’ him!
I suppose that roof has shined that-a-way frosty nights ‘fo’ to-night; but some way I never seemed to see it.
Don’t reckon the creakin’ o’ this windlass could disturb her—or him.
Reckon I might go turn a little mo’ cotton-seed in the troughs for them cows—an’ put some extry oats out for the mules an’ the doctor’s mare—an’ onchain Rover, an’ let ’im stretch ’is legs a little. I’d like everything on the place to know he’s come, an’ to feel the diff’ence.
Well, now I’ll load up—an’ I do hope nobody won’t notice the redic’lousness of it.
You say she’s asleep, doctor, an’ th’ ain’t nothin’ mo’ needed to be did—an’ yo’ ‘re goin’!
Don’t, for gracious sakes! go, doctor, an’ leave me! I wont know what on top o’ the round earth to do, ef—ef—You know she—she might wake up—or he!
You say Dicey she knows. But she’s on’y a nigger, doctor. Yes; I know she’s had exper’ence with the common run o’ babies, but—
Lemme go an’ set down this bucket, an’ lay this stick o’ wood on the fire, an’ put these eggs down, so’s I can talk to you free-handed.
Step here to the do’, doctor. I say, doc, ef it’s a question o’ the size o’ yo’ bill, you can make it out to suit yo’self—or, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You stay right along here a day or so—tell to-morrer or nex’ day, anyhow—an’ I’ll sen’ you a whole bale o’ cotton—an’ you can sen’ back any change you see fit—or none—or none, I say. Or, ef you’d ruther take it out in pertaters an’ corn an’ sorghum, thess say so, an’ how much of each.
But what? “It wouldn’t be right? Th’ ain’t no use,” you say? An’ you’ll shore come back to-morrer? Well. But, by the way, doctor, did you know to-day was Christmas? Of co’se I might’ve knew you did—but I never. An’ now it seems to me like Christmas, an’ Fo’th o’ July, an’ “Hail Columbia, happy lan’,” all b’iled down into one big jubilee!
But tell me, doctor, confidential—sh!—step here a leetle further back—tell me, don’t you think he’s to say a leetle bit undersized? Speak out, ef he is.
Wh—how’d you say? “Mejum,” eh? Thess mejum! An’ they do come even littler yet? An’ you say mejum babies’re thess ez liable to turn out likely an’ strong ez over-sizes, eh? Mh-hm! Well, I reckon you know—an’ maybe the less they have to contend with at the start the better.
Oh, thanky, doctor! Don’t be afeered o’ wrenchin’ my wris’! A thousand thankies! Yo’ word for it, he’s a fine boy! An’ you’ve inspected a good many, an’ of co’se you know—yas, yas! Shake ez hard ez you like—up an’ down—up an’ down!