And childern.—Childern? Lawzy-day!
Doc worships 'em!—You call
Round at his house and ast 'em!—
they're a-swarmin' there—that's all!—
They're in his Lib'ry—in best room—
in kitchen—fur and near,—
In office too, and, I p'sume,
his operatin'-cheer!
XLIV
You know they's men 'at bees won't sting?—
They's plaguey few,—but Doc
He's one o' them.—And same, i jing!
with childern;—they jes flock
Round Sifers natchurl!—in his lap,
and in his pockets, too,
And in his old fur mitts and cap,
and heart as warm and true!
XLV
It's cur'ous, too,—'cause Doc
hain't got no childern of his own—
'Ceptin' the ones he's tuk
and brought up, 'at's bin left alone.
And orphans when their father died,
er mother,—and Doc he
Has he'pped their dyin' satisfied.—
"The child shall live with me