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“Look a-here, my good woman,” sez he to the young woman with the baby, “as I wuz tellin’ you afore, you must do sumpin to keep that child quiet. It ‘ll never do to keep all these folks awake like this. They ‘ve paid for a good night’s sleep, ‘nd it ‘s my duty as a director uv the Han’bul ‘nd St. Jo to pertest ag’in’ this disturbance. I ‘ve raised a family uv ‘leven children, ‘nd I know, as well as I know anythink, that that child is hungry. No child ever cries like that when it is n’t hungry, so I insist on your nursin’ it ‘nd givin’ us peace ‘nd quiet.”

Then the young woman began to sniffle.

“Law me, sir,” sez the young woman, “I ain’t the baby’s mother–I ‘m only just tendin’ it.”

The colonel got pretty mad then; his face got red ‘nd his voice kind uv trembled–he wuz so mad.

“Where is its mother?” sez the colonel. “Why is n’t she here takin’ care uv this hungry ‘nd cryin’ child like she ought to be?”

“She ‘s in the front car, sir,” sez the young woman, chokin’ up. “She ‘s in the front car–in a box, dead; we ‘re takin’ the body ‘nd the baby back home.”

Now what would you or me have done–what would any man have done then ‘nd there? Jest what the colonel done.

The colonel did n’t wait for no second thought; he jest reached out his big bony hands ‘nd he sez, “Young woman, gi’ me that baby”–sez it so quiet ‘nd so gentle like that seemed like it wuz the baby’s mother that wuz a-speakin’.

The colonel took the baby, and–now, may be you won’t believe me–the colonel held that baby ‘nd rocked it in his arms ‘nd talked to it like it had been his own child. And the baby seemed to know that it lay ag’in’ a lovin’ heart, for, when it heerd the ol’ man’s kind voice ‘nd saw his smilin’ face ‘nd felt the soothin’ rockin’ uv his arms, the baby stopped its grievin’ ‘nd cryin’, ‘nd cuddled up close to the colonel’s breast, ‘nd begun to coo ‘nd laff.

The colonel called the nigger. “Jim,” sez he, “you go ahead ‘nd tell the conductor to stop the train at the first farm-house. We ‘ve got to have some milk for this child–some warm milk with sugar into it; I hain’t raised a family uv ‘leven children for nothin’.”

The baby did n’t cry no more that night; leastwise we did n’t hear it if it did cry. And what if we had heerd it? Blessed if I don’t think every last one of us would have got up to help tend that lonesome little thing.

That wuz more ‘n twenty years ago, but I kin remember the last words I heerd the colonel say: “No matter if it does cry,” sez he. “It don’t make no more noise than a cricket, nohow; ‘nd I reckon that being a director uv the road I kin stop the train ‘nd let off anybody that don’t like the way the Han’bul ‘nd St. Jo does business.”

Twenty years ago! Colonel Elijah Gates is sleepin’ in the Palmyry buryin’-ground; likely as not the baby has growed up–leastwise the Han’bul ‘nd St. Jo has; everythink is different now–everythink has changed–everythink except humin natur’, ‘nd that is the same, it allus has been, and it allus will be, I reckon.

1888.