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XXIII
ROBINSON IS SICK
One evening Robinson went to bed sound and well. The next morning he
was sick. Before he had only the heat of the day to complain of.
To-day he was freezing. He wanted to go to work to get warm, but even
this did not break his chill. It increased till his teeth chattered
with the cold.
"Perhaps," thought he, "if I can sleep a little I will get better."
But he could not sleep. He was burning with fever and then shaking
with cold by turns. He felt a strong thirst, but he was so weak that
he could scarcely get the goat's milk. He had no sooner drunk the milk
than his tongue was as dry as before. He felt better after a night
of sleep, but the next day his fever and chills were worse than before.
Then he bethought him of his parents. How kindly his mother had taken
care of him! Now no one was near that could assist him.
"Ah," he sighed, "must I die here? Who would bury me? There is no one
to miss me." At this the tears came to his eyes.
His sickness increased with each day. Occasionally the fever would
go down sufficiently to allow him to get something to eat. Then it
would be worse than before. In his dire need he wanted to pray, but
he was so weak that he could only stammer, "Dear God, help me, or I
shall die!"
One night he had a strange dream. He thought he saw his good old
father standing before him calling to him. He spread out his arms and
cried aloud, "Here I am, here I am!" He tried to get up, but he was
so weak that he fell back fainting.
He lay there a long time, but finally came to. He felt a burning
thirst, but no one reached him a drop of water. He prepared to die.
He folded his hands and prayed to God that he would be merciful to
him. He prayed forgiveness from his parents. Once more he raised his
head and gazed wildly around, then he sank back and knew no more.
When he again awoke he felt better. His hot fever had gone. He
attempted to walk. He had just enough strength to crawl to the table
and fetch a shell of water. When he tried to walk he had to sit down
at every two or three steps.
From this he recovered gradually, growing better and better, and he
thanked God inwardly for his recovery. His sickness had continued from
June 18 to July 3.
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Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis
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