The Amateur Dad.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 7, 18 August 1906, Page 41

The Amateur Dad.

’Fore the kid come, me and Alarthy used to sit up nights fellin’ each other how much we'd like it if he turned out to be a girl. 1 said everything that I knowed that was nice about girls, and drawed on my - imagination for what I didn’t know, and Alarthy spoke the same, so I convinced Alarthy thorough that I would be terrible disappointed if it wasn’t a girl, and she didn’t leave me no doubts about her hankerin’ for a baby of the female sect. Course, we was both tryin’ to square ourselves, in ease it should be a girl. Come to find out. we was both of us brimmill’ over with joy ’cause it was a boy. We’d talked over - girls’ names by the bushel, without ever coinin’ to any deadset choice, but we most always squeezed in somewhere, sort of apologetic, a remark that if it should happen to be a boy we’d have to call it Hiram L., after its grandfather. We had Doe Wolfert because he was the only doc in tire township. He certainly was a quaint old bonesetter. He was the shiftiest-eyed medic you ever saw. No man livin’ ever got him to say plain yes or no. He'd walk all ’round them two little words like he was afraid of steppin’ on ’em. I had figgered, beforehand, that l*d clear out to the woods until things got so I’d be useful, as well as ornamental, but when it came to the point I couldn’t. Farthest, away 1 could get was I lie front verandah. I done my good twenty miles on it that day, I’ll bet. I was walkin’ on the level, but my spirits was climbin’ bills and coastin' into valleys. First minute I’d be stickin’ out my chest and thinkin’ how all-fired grand it would be to be a daddy, and next minute I’d eave in like a frostblighted pumpkin, and wonder bow in creation I'd ever drag along as a widowman. One minute I’d see myself skyhootin’ ’round with n fine kid on my arm, and the next. I'd see myself alone, with Alarthy gone. I’ve got the reputation around here of being a humorist

man, but 1 didn't say w» funny sayings to myself that day that 1 cun remember. I hail fever and <*idd sweats and double contraction of the heart, and whenever I thought of Marthy I couldn't think of n decent thing 1 had ever done to her. 1 felt 1 was an ornery, low-down crittur, which t ain't, and 1 saw Marthy as a spotless angel, which she ain't, neither. She's woman and earthly all through, ami mighty good earth at that. Marthy never knowed what a chance she lost of bein' considered a perfectionated saint, but she missed the chance. Just about when l*d given up all ho|»c of ever see in’ Marthy alive again. Mrs Murphy (who we'd got in to sort of give the kid its first toilet, it not being expected to be far enough advanced to do much primpin’ on its own account right at first) come to the door like blessed sunshine and percolated a smile out to me. Loony as I was at that minute, 1 had sense enough to know she wasn’t smiling at me for flirtation, nor because she had a smile she didn't know what to do with, and so was passing it out to me, just to get rid of it. 1 connected that smile with other things. I knowed she was smilin' me back from the desolate widowhood or widow-manhood, or whatever the right word is. (1 know the right word, but it's got mislaid. Thank the stars I ain't ever had any use for it, and hope never to have.) Right then 1 was boosted, like I tell you, from a deep, black hole to a high and airy location, and by a plain-faced, baggy Irish lady that did wash in' by the day, at fifty cents a day, and you furnished the soap. She's lieen my friend ever since, and always will be. As 1 passed in, feelin' more like warwhoopin’ than like walkin' soft, she whispered three words at me that finished me up. “It’s a boy,” says she. “Walk lightly and stay where you are, and when you can come in and see the boy I'll bring him out and show him t<; you.” I was clean idiotic with satisfaction. I sat down on the edge of a chair, and twirled my hat until 1 couldn't sit still, and then got up and edged 'round the room lookin’ at the pictures on the wall for all the world like a visitor. I'd got half-way through lookin’ at the things on the whatnot, and was pastin' my eye ‘round for a photograf-album, when Airs. Murphy stuck her blessed face into the parlour. • “Sh-h!” says she, “make no noise and control your feelin’s, and you can come in for a quarter of a second and see your son.” 1 was so proud 1 had cold chills, and I walked like a clothes-horse on castors. I looked for Marthy first, and saw she was a-sleepin’ beautifully, and then Mrs Murphy pulled down the covers and showed me Hiram L. 1 took him all in at a glance, and I formed my own opinion right there. I was like a rubber balloon when you stick a pin in it, but I didn't collapse with a bang. I just caved in gradual. 1 wont right out of that room and out of the house, and sat down on the porch step ami blubbered. They never missed me. When 1 think back on that day it makes me laugh, but 1 was sure a rank amateur in the baby business, and 1 didn't know no better then. Right now I’d put up every cent I've got that you can't find a finer boy in the State than what Hiram L. is, and I've learned since that he was what you might call an Al baby right from the start, but it didn't look that way to inc. He was the first of that age I'd ever been introduced to, and he looked different than l*d figured on. I've seen plenty of brand-new colts, and they run largely to legs, but you'd know them for horses right off: ami I've seen brand-new puppies, and their exes ain’t open, but you'll know them immediate for dogs; but. that kid didn't look any more like what I’d calculated Hiram L. would look like than a cucumber looks like a watermelon. My heart was plump broke. 1 was scairt when 1 thought what would happen to Marthy when she saw that wrinkled, red, little thing. 1 knew we’d have to keep it, but I didn't see how’ I could bear the shame. 1 made up my mind in a minute that I'd sell off the place and move up in the mountains—just me and Marthy ami the boy. 1 didn't think of him as Hiram L. any more. It wouldn’t do to insult father by givin' his name to that baby. 1 figured it all out how I'd act bettor tu Marthy than ever, to make up for the

trial that bey wouki he, and how I’d do all in man’s jmiwit to keep the l»oy from ever know in’ how handicapped ha was by his looks. “How’s things coinin' along?” The boys had all been mighty interested in this baby businesa, and I knew he’d trot off ami Irll them, so 1 says, sad emmgli: “It's a buy.” Brink seen 1 wasn’t jubilant, so he “Don't seem very stuck up alaiut it. all right ?” “Yes,” I says, “she's 0.K.” Brink hung ’round a minute or two, waitin’ for further orders, ami, none coinin', he says, hesitatin', “So long!’’ I looked off across the river ami cairnlated how 1 could fix it so Mrs Murphy wouldn't say nothin’ outside about that poor ki<l of mine, and to keep him dark until 1 could take him and Marthy and skin out for the mountains. Mrs Murphy was a terrible chatty lady—sort of a pri|>rtual fonygraf, and wholesale and retail news agency. I guessed th<‘ best 1 could do was to lock her in the cellar and then head all comers away from the house*. Doe Wolfert didn't bother me any. I knowed he wouldn't give me away. If anybody could get him to admit there had been a baby born at my house they'd be Im-ky. Dim- never gave away professional secrets, or anything else. -lust for a sample of what Du<- was like, take the case of Sandy Sam, who fell down the mine shaft ami was brought up in the bucket as dead as Adam. Doc was ou the ground as as they brought Sandy up, and one id the hoys that come late asked Dor what the crowd to congregate. “Well,” says !)<•«, looking <>!i at an angle into the air. “it look" like Sandy Sam fell down the mine shaft.'' “Poor old Sam,” says the filler; killed him, didn't it ':' r Doc looked at the sky. and <•on*i<lercil. “H's a rema rkaidc deep shaft, he says at la>t: “remarkable deep.” “Thunder!” ‘-ays 1 he feller, "I know it's a deep shall. What 1 ashed you is if Sain's dead. Is he?” Doe went oil into -a diram. and when ho come to he looks at the feller. “Oh!*’ he says, absent like, “is Sam dead? Perhaps! Perhaps he is. 1 shouldn't like to <av. But.” he ended up. sort of pullin' together at the lillish, “I guess the boys think so. They're going to bury him.” So I wasn't afraid of Dor Wolfrrt blabbin'. I knowrd t hr woiM. ami. like everybody. I wantid -onabtulx to trit me it wasn't so had. I nailed Doc a> he rome < ut. 1 barked him uj» against a porch pillar, and eonversed with him right th* ir. I wanted to know just how bail it was. I wanted to know what hope there was. if any. “Doc,” I said—and I was blessed glad I had a beard, so he couldn't see the quivers in my chin—‘‘he’s terrible undersized, ain't hr?'’ “Hum’'’ says Dor. “You might call him small. You might or you mightn't. I've seen 'rm bigger, and I've seen 'em smaller. l've seen all sizes.” I couldn't sit* much help in that. “Dor,’’ I said, tremblin', ‘hr won't always be so—so dwarf«*<l like, will hr? He'll grow—some?” ‘‘Probably,” said Doi*. "I’d hate to say In* wouldn't.” I groaned. I had to. “Ain't his head a little oil’ shape, Doc?” I stammvrrd out. I guess the shape of the head had worriisl me most of all. It wasn't just what I'd known good heads to he. “Think so?” asked Dor. absent like. “Don't you ?” I went ha« k at him. “Tell me straight, I ran stand the worst.’’ “Hum!'' hr says. “Heads dill’er. I've got, to go ” “No, you don't!” J said, barkin' him up against the post; "not till you tell me. His legs, now. Think they'll ever straighten out? Think he'll ever •get over that n*d. s<*ald<*d look? Think he'll ever be able to talk. Doc?’’ Dim- looked anxious toward the road.' “Don't worry,” he says, “don't fret. Keep cool.” "Yrs,” I said. M-oinful, “me keep cool! Don’t you know I'm that poor little red, bent up kid's daddy? Don’t you know 1 looked forward to callin’ him Hiram L. ? Don't you know, Dor.” 1 Raid, strong and forcible, “money ain't no <»l»ject in a rase like this. Tell me thia. Shall 1 g»A a eperialiM ? Wouhl it do

any good to »wnd to Denver and get a •pecialut, or Chicago, or New York!” Doe looked interested at the horizon. ‘•Why, no,” lie says, “no! 1 don’t aee that it would.” I’ll bet that was the first time Doc Wolfert ever said “No” straight out. It settled me. I let go his arm and sat right down. If Doc Wolfert spoke up and said “No,” 1 knew there wasn’t nothin’ to be done. I sat there probably a thousand years, if you count by feelin's. I had a wish to go in and see the kid, and then again I hated to. t hated for Mrs Murphy to look at me. 1 felt I’d blubber, and I was ashamed, but 1 knowed I’d ought to be there to take Murthy's hand when she woke up, atid to lie to her about it not bein’ so bad as she'd think. That made me pull myself together. I made up my mind that I’d be a man, anyway. 1 had to think of Marthy, and a man ain't made to be blubberin’ 'round when his women need help. I swallowed down the chunk of my neck that had got stuck in my throat, and swiped my eyes and stood on my legs. When I turned, Mrs. Murphy was in the door. ‘'Well,” she says, “you don’t take much interest I must say. Here you sit enjoyin’ the landscape, and your son askin' where his father has gone to, and if he is an orphan or what. Come in,” she says, “or he'll be coinin’ out.” I walked in. I stopped a bit by the bedrom door to git my courage, and then I walked into the room. Marthy had her eyes open, and they looked up at. me with a smile in them, and then looked dbwn again at the bunch on her arm under the quilt. "Come and see him,” she says, feeble but proud; “come and see your son, Hiram L.” She slid down the cover so I could see him. I looked at him with a sick grin. “Ain’t he lovely?” she says. • “Sure!” I said, lying bravely. - “Don’t talk," says Mrs. Murphy, “or the session is ended," speakin' to Marthy. ".hist one word,” I said; “Marthy, are you satisfied with him?” "lie's perfect!” sh.e says, “perfect and lovely.”- . "All right,” I. said, “then I don’t mind.” She smiled, spzt of weak. "You will joke,” she says. “Joke!” says Mrs Murphv. indignant. “Insult. I call it, Did you ever see a finer baby?” . , 1 looked to see it she winked. She didn’t. ■'How so2” I asked,..my voice all in a tremble. i; . . ‘•How so?’’ she .a^ks: sio. ‘how .so’ at all. He weighs ten pounds, and he’s sound in wind and limb,” she says, ‘“and look at the shape of his head! He’ll be il Senator, at least, or maybe President. It’s a grand baby, he is!” •’Ten pounds?” i said: “ain’t that some dwarfish ?” “Hear the mail!” she says: “T do believe he don’t know a fine baby when he sees one.” “Do you mean that, Mrs Murphy?” I asked, every drop-of blood in me going on the jump. “Mean it?” she says; “I’ve had eight of my own, and not one could hold a candle to this one.” “Marthy!” I said, “is it so?” Marthy looked up and smiled. “Mrs Murphy has tine children,” she says, “but my little boy. 1 think, is finer.” “How’s his head?” I asked. “Perfect,” she says. “And his colour?” • “So healthy,” she says. “And his legs?” i i “So straight and strong.” she says. I took hold of her hand and squeezed it good, and then I went to the window and looked out. and I saw all the boys lined up along the fence, waitin' for me to come out and let them know that what I'd told Tuomy was so. Proud ? I was so proud I felt like giving Mrs Murphy a million dollars. •“Hang it!” t yelped, “let his dad have >nother good look at Hiram L.”