FullReads

Mrs. Bartender was still yawning as John Fairmeadow entered upon her ennui ; but when the big minister, exercising the softest sort of caution, slipped off his gigantic pack, and deposited it with exquisitely delicate care, and a face of deep concern, on the table, she opened her faded eyes with interested curiosity. And as for the contents of the pack, there’s no more concealing them! The article must now be declared and produced. It was a baby. Of course, it was a baby! The thing has been obvious all along. John Fairmeadow’s foundling: left in a basket at the threshold of his temporary lodging-room at Big Rapids that very morning–first to John Fairmeadow’s consternation, and then to his gleeful delight. As for the baby itself–it was presently unswathed–it is quite beyond me to describe its excellencies of appearance and conduct. John Fairmeadow himself couldn’t make the attempt and escape annihilation. It was a real and regular baby, however. One might suggest, in inadequate description, that it was a plump baby; one might add that it was a lusty baby. It had hair; it had a pucker of amazement; its eyes, two of them, were properly disposed in its head; its hands were of what are called rose-leaf dimensions; it had, apparently, a fixed habit of squirming; it had no teeth. Evidently a healthy baby–a baby that any mother might be proud of–doubtless a marvel of infantile perfection in every respect. I should not venture to dispute such an assertion; nor would John Fairmeadow–nor any other bold gentleman of Swamp’s End and Elegant Corners– not in these later days !

Mrs. Bartender, of course, lifted her languid white hands in uttermost astonishment.

“There!” John Fairmeadow exploded, looking round like a showman. “What d’ye think o’ that ? Eh?”

“But, Mr. Fairmeadow,” the poor lady stammered, “what have you brought it here for?”

“Why not?” John Fairmeadow demanded. “Why not, indeed? It’s perfectly polite.”

“What am I to do with it?”

“It isn’t intoxicated, my good woman,” John Fairmeadow ran on, in great wrath; “and it’s never been in jail.”

“But my dear Mr. Fairmeadow, do be sensible; what am I to do with it?”

“Why, ah–I should think,” John Fairmeadow ventured–the baby was still sleeping like a brick–“that you might first of all–ah–resuscitate it. Would a–a slight poke in the ribs–provoke animation?”

But the baby didn’t need a poke in the ribs. It didn’t need any other sort of resuscitation. Not that baby! The self-dependent, courageous, perfectly competent and winning little rascal resuscitated itself. Instantly, too–and positively–and apparently without the least effort in the world. Moreover–and with remarkable directness–it demanded what it wanted–and got it. And having been nourished to its satisfaction from young Master Bartender’s silver-mounted bottle (which John Fairmeadow then secretly slipped into his pocket)–and having yawned in a fashion so tremendous that Mrs. Bartender herself could never hope to equal that infinite expression of boredom–and having smiled, and having wriggled, and having giggled, and cooed, and attempted–actually attempted–to get its great toe in its mouth without extraneous assistance of any sort whatsoever–even without the slightest suggestion that such a thing would be an amazingly engaging trick in a baby of its age and degree–it burst into a gurgle of glee so wondrously genuine and infectious that poor, bored Mrs. Bartender herself was quite unable to resist it, and promptly, and publicly, and finally committed herself to the assertion that the baby was a dear, wherever it came from.

John Fairmeadow snatched it from the table, and was about to make off with it, when Mrs. Bartender interposed.

“My dear Mr. Fairmeadow,” said she, “that child will simply catch its death of cold!”

There was something handy, however–something of silk and fawn-skin–and with this enveloping the baby John Fairmeadow swung in a roar with it to the bar–and held it aloft in all that seething wickedness–pure symbol of the blessed Christmas festival. And there was a sensation, of course–a sensation beginning in vociferous ejaculations, but presently failing to a buzz of conjecture. There were questions to follow: to which John Fairmeadow answered that he had found the baby–that the baby was nobody’s baby–that the baby was his baby by right of finders keepers–that the baby was everybody’s baby–and that the baby would presently be somebody’s much-loved baby, that he’d vouch for! The baby, now resting content in John Fairmeadow’s arms, was diffidently approached and examined. Gingerbread Jenkins poked a finger at it, and said, in a voice of the most inimical description, “Get out!” without disturbing the baby’s serene equanimity in the slightest. Young Billy Lush, charging his soft, boyish voice with all the horrifying intent he could muster, threatened to “catch” the baby, as though bent upon devouring it on the spot; but the baby only chuckled with delight. Billy the Beast incautiously approached a finger near the baby’s stout abdomen; and the baby–with a perfectly fearless glance into the very depths of the Beast’s frowzy beard–clutched the finger and smiled like an angel. Long Butcher Long attempted to tweak the baby’s nose; but the effort was a ridiculous failure, practiced so clumsily on an object so small, and the only effect was to cause the baby to achieve a tremendous wriggle and a loud scream of laughter. These experiments were variously repeated, but all with the same cherubic result; the baby conducted itself with admirable self-possession and courage, as though, indeed, it had been used, every hour of its life, to the company of riotous lumber-jacks in town.