at Spooner's Hotel at Hoost'n.

"Hello, Bill," says I; "what air you totin' so kind uv keerful-like in
your arms there?"

"Why, I've got the baby," says he; 'nd as he said it the tears come up
into his eyes.

"Your own baby, Bill?" says I.

"Yes," says he. "Nellie took sick uv the janders a fortnight ago, 'nd--'nd
she died, 'nd I'm takin' her body up to Texarkany to bury. She lived
there, you know, 'nd I'm goin' to leave the baby there with its gran'ma."

Poor Bill! it wuz his wife that the men were carryin' in that pine box to
the baggage-car.

"Likely-lookin'baby, Bill," says I, cheerful like. "Perfect pictur' uv its
mother; kind uv favors you round the lower part uv the face, tho'."

I said this to make Bill feel happier. If I'd told the truth, I'd 've said
the baby wuz a sickly, yaller-lookin' little thing, for so it wuz; looked
haff-starved, too. Couldn't help comparin' it with that big, fat baby in
its mother's arms over the way.

"Bill," says I, "here's a ten-dollar note for the baby, 'nd God bless
you!"

"Thank ye, Mr. Goodhue," says he, 'nd he choked all up as he moved off
with that yaller little baby in his arms. It warn't very fur up the road