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Susan was holding him up in his crib to give him a better chance for breath, but it didn't seem as if he could breathe at all. My little war-baby, with his dear ways and sweet roguish face, was choking to death before my very eyes, and I couldn't help him. I threw down the hot poultice I had ready in despair. Of what use was it? Jims was dying, and it was my fault I hadn't been careful enough!
Honestly, dad, on some of these dark cold nights in the trenches, it heartens and braces me up no end to think that thousands of miles away at the old Glen station there is a small spotted dog sharing my vigil. "Tell Rilla I'm glad her war-baby is turning out so well, and tell Susan that I'm fighting a good fight against both Huns and cooties." "Mrs.
I wonder if our wireless man couldn't get in touch with some of the shore stations." "Sure he could," says I, "but don't let on what stock you're plungin' on. His name's Meyers. He's a hyphen, you know. And if he got wise to your havin' war-baby shares he'd likely hold out on you. But you might jolly him into gettin' a general quotation list. I'd stick around this forenoon if I was you."
"No, he's a little war-baby I've been taking care of, because his mother died and his father was overseas," answered Rilla in a subdued tone. "War-baby! Humph! Well, I'd better skin out before he wakes up or he'll likely start crying. Children don't like me never did. I can't recollect any youngster ever coming near me of its own accord. Never had any of my own. Amelia was my step-daughter.
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