and I sang as soothingly as I could—
"Lit-tle Pat-sy, Wat-sy, Sat-sy,
Does he feel a lit-ty bad?
Me will send and get his bot-tle,
He shan't have to cry-wy-wy."
"What an idiot!" said Euphemia, laughing in spite of her vexation.
"No, we ain't no id-i-otses,
What we want's a bot-ty milk."
So I sang as I walked to the kitchen door and sent Jonas to the barn for the bottle.
Pomona was in spasms of laughter in the kitchen, and Euphemia was trying her best not to laugh at all.
"Who's going to take care of it, I'd like to know?" she said, as soon as she could get herself into a state of severe inquiry.
"Some-times me, and some-times Jonas,"
I sang, still walking up and down the room with a long, slow step, swinging the baby from side to side, very much as if it were grass-seed in a sieve and I was sowing it over the carpet.
When the bottle came I took it and began to feed little Pat. Perhaps the presence of a critical audience embarrassed us, for Jonas and Pomona were at the door with streaming eyes, while Euphemia stood with her handkerchief to the lower part of her face, or it may have been that I did not understand the management of bottles, but at any rate, I could not make the thing work, and the disappointed little Pat began to cry, just as the whole of our audience burst into a wild roar of laughter.
"Here! Give me that child!" cried Euphemia,
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