[Image] as the mother rocked the baby in her grandmother's rocking chair, the only real chair in the small cabin.  Mustard poultices, hot steam, baked onions...nothing seemed to help...the fever remained along with the death rattling cough of the croup.

She kept adding wood to the fire in the hand laid rock fireplace she and her husband had made when they raised the cabin.  And she rocked and rocked, the baby wrapped in the quilt her mother and grandmother had made.

Tears slid quietly down her cheeks as she wished her mother or grandmother were there to tell her what to do to save her baby, her only baby, her precious baby girl.

Her husband had left to bring the nearest neighbor who knew something of doctoring but that was miles away and it would be morning before he returned. For now it was just mother and child, rocking and rocking and praying.

The sounds of the racking coughs tore each fiber of the mother's being, thinking, if only I could take the sickness and let my child be well.  The silent tears rolled down the mother's cheeks as she stared into the fireplace... rocking, rocking.

The mother dozed in her exhaustion.  A voice woke her, a voice she hadn't heard in years, how could it be? She heard, "Child, I am with you."  She looked around the room and saw no one.  She must have been dreaming.  It was the voice of her grandmother, gone all these years, how could she hear her voice?

Then she noticed something else...there was no coughing from the tiny bundle she held.  Oh, God, No, please, no!  She frantically removed the quilt and felt the baby's forehead...not hot anymore.  She leaned closely and heard the sweetest sound on earth, a baby's breathing as it sleeps. The fever had broken!  The worst had passed. 

The cabin was quiet.  The only sounds were the crackling fire, the baby's peaceful breathing, two women  humming and the rocking chair...rocking, rocking, rocking.