SONNY'S DIPLOMA
Yas, sir; this is it. This here's Sonny's diplomy
thet you've heerd so much about—sheepskin they call it, though it ain't no mo'
sheepskin 'n what I am. I've skinned too many not to know. Thess to think o'
little Sonny bein' a grad'jate—an' all by his own efforts, too! It is a
plain-lookin' picture, ez you say, to be framed up in sech a fine gilt frame;
but it's worth it, an' I don't begrudge it to him. He picked out that red plush
hisself. He's got mighty fine taste for a country-raised child, Sonny has.
Seem like the oftener I come here an' stan' before
it, the prouder I feel, an' the mo' I can't reelize thet he done it.
I'd 'a' been proud enough to've had him go through
the reg'lar co'se o' study, an' be awarded this diplomy, but to 've seen 'im
thess walk in an' demand it, the way he done, an' to prove his right in a fair
fight—why, it tickles me so thet I thess seem to git a spell o' the giggles
ev'y time I think about it.
Sir? How did he do it? Why, I thought eve'ybody in
the State of Arkansas knowed how Sonny walked over the boa'd o' school
directors, an' took a diplomy in the face of Providence, at the last
anniversary.
I don't know thet I ought to say that either, for
they never was a thing done mo' friendly an' amiable on earth, on his part,
than the takin' of this dockiment. Why, no; of co'se he wasn't goin' to that
school—cert'n'y not. Ef he had b'longed to that school, they wouldn't 'a' been
no question about it. He 'd 'a' thess gradj'ated with the others. An' when he
went there with his ma an' me, why, he'll tell you hisself that he hadn't no
mo' idee of gradj'atin' 'n what I have this minute.
An' when he riz up in his seat, an' announced his
intention, why, you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather. You see, it took
me so sudden, an' I didn't see thess how he was goin' to work it, never havin'
been to that school.
Of co'se eve'ybody in the county goes to the
gradj'atin', an' we was all three settin' there watchin' the performances, not
thinkin' of any special excitement, when Sonny took this idee.
It seems thet seein' all the other boys gradj'ate
put him in the notion, an' he felt like ez ef he ought to be a-gradj'atin',
too.
You see, he had went to school mo' or less with
all them fellers, an' he knowed thet they didn't, none o' 'em, know half ez
much ez what he did,—though, to tell the truth, he ain't never said sech a
word, not even to her or me,—an', seein' how easy they was bein' turned out,
why, he thess reelized his own rights—an' demanded 'em then an' there.
Of co'se we know thet they is folks in this here
community thet says thet he ain't got no right to this dipiomy; but what else
could you expect in a jealous neighborhood where eve'ybody is mo' or less kin?
The way I look at it, they never was a diplomy
earned quite so upright ez this on earth—never. Ef it wasn't, why, I wouldn't
allow him to have it, no matter how much pride I would 'a' took, an' do take,
in it. But for a boy o' Sonny's age to've had the courage to face all them
people, an' ask to be examined then an' there, an' to come out ahead, the way
he done, why, it does me proud, that it does.
You see, for a boy to set there seein' all them
know-nothin' boys gradj'ate, one after another, offhand, the way they was
doin', was mighty provokin', an' when Sonny is struck with a sense of
injestice, why, he ain't never been known to bear it in silence. He taken that
from her side o' the house.
I noticed, ez he set there that day, thet he begin
to look toler'ble solemn, for a festival, but it never crossed my mind what he
was a-projeckin' to do. Ef I had 'a' suspicioned it, I'm afeered I would've
opposed it, I'd 'a' been so skeert he wouldn't come out all right; an' ez I
said, I didn't see, for the life o' me, how he was goin' to work it.
That is the only school in the county thet he
ain't never went to, 'cause it was started after he had settled down to Miss
Phoebe's school. He wouldn't hardly 'v went to it, nohow, though—less'n, of
co'se, he 'd 'a' took a notion. Th' ain't no 'casion to send him to a county school
when he's the only one we've got to edjercate. They ain't been a thing I've
enjoyed ez much in my life ez my sackerfices on account o' Sonny's
edjercation—not a one. Th' ain't a patch on any ol' coat I've got but seems to
me to stand for some advantage to him.
Well, sir, it was thess like I'm a-tellin' you. He
set still ez long ez he could, an' then he riz an' spoke. Says he, "I have
decided thet I'd like to do a little gradj'atin' this evenin' myself,"
thess that a-way.
An' when he spoke them words, for about a minute
you could 'a' heerd a pin drop; an' then eve'ybody begin a-screechin' with
laughter. A person would think thet they'd 'a' had some consideration for a
child standin' up in the midst o' sech a getherin', tryin' to take his own
part; but they didn't. They thess laughed immod'rate. But they didn't faze him.
He had took his station on the flo', an' he helt his ground.
Thess ez soon ez he could git a heerin', why, he
says, says he: "I don't want anybody to think thet I'm a-tryin' to take
any advantage. I don't expec' to gradj'ate without passin' my examination. An',
mo' 'n that," says he, "I am ready to pass it now." An' then he
went on to explain thet he would like to have anybody present thet was
competent to do it to step forward an' examine him—then an' there. An' he said
thet ef he was examined fair and square, to the satisfaction of eve'ybody—an'
didn't pass—why, he 'd give up the p'int. An' he wanted to be examined oral—in
eve'ybody's hearin'—free-handed an' outspoke.
Well, sir, seem like folks begin to see a little
fun ahead in lettin' him try it—which I don't see thess how they could 'a'
hindered him, an' it a free school, an' me a taxpayer. But they all seemed to
be in a pretty good humor by this time, an' when Sonny put it to vote, why,
they voted unanymous to let him try it. An' all o' them unanymous votes wasn't,
to say, friendly, neither. Heap o' them thet was loudest in their unanimosity
was hopefully expectin' to see him whipped out at the first question. Tell the
truth, I mo' 'n half feared to see it myself. I was that skeert I was fairly
all of a trimble.
Well, when they had done votin', Sonny, after
first thankin' 'em,—which I think was a mighty polite thing to do, an' they
full o' the giggles at his little expense that minute,—why, he went on to say
thet he requie'd 'em to make thess one condition, an' that was thet any
question he missed was to be passed on to them thet had been a-gradj'atin' so
fast, an' ef they missed it, it wasn't to be counted ag'inst him.
Well, when he come out with that, which, to my
mind, couldn't be beat for fairness, why, some o' the mothers they commenced to
look purty serious, an' seem like ez ef they didn't find it quite so funny ez
it had been. You see, they say thet them boys had eve'y one had reg'lar
questions give' out to 'em, an' eve'y last one had studied his own word; an' ef
they was to be questioned hit an' miss, why they wouldn't 'a' stood no chance
on earth.
Of co'se they couldn't give Sonny the same
questions thet had been give' out, because he had heerd the answers, an' it
wouldn't 'a' been fair. So Sonny he told 'em to thess set down, an' make out a
list of questions thet they'd all agree was about of a' equal hardness to them
thet had been ast, an' was of thess the kind of learnin' thet all the reg'lar
gradj'ates's minds was sto'ed with, an' thet either he knowed 'em or he
didn't—one.
It don't seem so excitin', somehow, when I tell
about it now; but I tell you for about a minute or so, whilst they was waitin'
to see who would undertake the job of examinin' him, why, it seemed thet eve'y
minute would be the next, ez my ol' daddy used to say. The only person present
thet seemed to take things anyway ca'm was Miss Phoebe Kellog, Sonny's teacher.
She has been teachin' him reg'lar for over two years now, an' ef she had 'a'
had a right to give diplomies, why, Sonny would 'a' thess took out one from
her; but she ain't got no license to gradj'ate nobody. But she knowed what
Sonny knowed, an' she knowed thet ef he had a fair show, he'd come thoo
creditable to all hands. She loves Sonny thess about ez much ez we do, I
believe, take it all round. Th' ain't never been but one time in these two
years thet she has, to say, got me out o' temper, an' that was the day she said
to me thet her sure belief was thet Sonny was goin' to make somethin' out'n
hisself some day—like ez ef he hadn't already made mo' 'n could be expected of
a boy of his age. Tell the truth, I never in my life come so near sayin'
somethin' I'd 'a' been shore to regret ez I did on that occasion. But of co'se
I know she didn't mean it. All she meant was thet he would turn out even mo' 'n
what he was now, which would be on'y nachel, with his growth.
Everybody knows thet it was her that got him
started with his collections an' his libr'y. Oh, yes; he's got the best libr'y
in the county, 'cep'n', of co'se, the doctor's 'n' the preacher's—everybody
round about here knows about that. He's got about a hund'ed books an' over.
Well, sir, when he made that remark, thet any question thet he missed was to be
give to the class, why, the whole atmosp'ere took on a change o' temp'ature.
Even the teacher was for backin' out o' the whole business square; but he
didn't thess seem to dare to say so. You see, after him a-favorin' it, it would
'a' been a dead give-away.
Eve'ybody there had saw him step over an' whisper
to Brother Binney when it was decided to give Sonny a chance, an' they knowed
thet he had asked him to examine him. But now, instid o' callin' on Brother
Binney, why, he thess said, says he: "I suppose I ought not to shirk this
duty. Ef it's to be did," says he, "I reckon I ought to do it—an' do
it I will." You see, he daresn't allow Brother Binney to put questions,
for fear he'd call out some thet his smarty grad'jates couldn't answer.
So he thess claired his th'oat, an' set down a
minute to consider. An' then he riz from his seat, an' remarked, with a heap o'
hems and haws, thet of co'se everybody knowed thet Sonny Jones had had unusual
advantages in some respec's, but thet it was one thing for a boy to spend his
time a-picnickin' in the woods, getherin' all sorts of natural curiosities, but
it was quite another to be a scholar accordin' to books, so's to be able to
pass sech a' examination ez would be a credit to a State institution o'
learnin', sech ez the one over which he was proud to preside. That word struck
me partic'lar, "proud to preside," which, in all this, of co'se, I
see he was castin' a slur on Sonny's collections of birds' eggs, an' his wild
flowers, an' wood specimens, an' min'rals. He even went so far ez to say thet
ol' Proph', the half-crazy nigger thet tells fortunes, an' gethers herbs out 'n
the woods, an' talks to hisself, likely knew more about a good many things than
anybody present, but thet, bein' ez he didn't know b from a bull's foot, why,
it wouldn't hardly do to grad'jate him—not castin' no slurs on Master Sonny
Jones, nor makin' no invijus comparisons, of co'se.
Well, sir, there was some folks there thet seemed
to think this sort o' talk was mighty funny an' smart. Some o' the mothers
acchilly giggled over it out loud, they was so mightily tickled. But Sonny he
thess stood his ground an' waited. Most any boy o' his age would 'a' got
flustered, but he didn't. He thess glanced around unconcerned at all the people
a-settin' around him, thess like ez ef they might 'a' been askin' him to a
picnic instid o' him provokin' a whole school committee to wrath.
Well, sir, it took that school-teacher about a
half-hour to pick out the first question, an' he didn't pick it out then. He 'd
stop, an' he'd look at the book, an' then he'd look at Sonny, an' then he'd
look at the class,—an' then he'd turn a page, like ez ef he couldn't make up
his mind, an' was afeerd to resk it, less'n it might be missed, an' be referred
back to the class. I never did see a man so overwrought over a little thing in
my life—never. They do say, though, that school-teachers feels mighty bad when
their scholars misses any p'int in public.
Well, sir, he took so long that d'reckly everybody
begin to git wo'e out, an' at last Sonny, why, he got tired, too, an' he up an'
says, says he, "Ef you can't make up your mind what to ask me, teacher,
why 'n't you let me ask myself questions? An' ef my questions seem too easy, why,
I'll put 'em to the class."
An', sir, with that he thess turns round, an' he
says, says he, "Sonny Jones," says he, addressin' hisself,
"what's the cause of total eclipses of the sun?" Thess that a-way he
said it; an' then he turned around, an' he says, says he:
"Is that a hard enough question?"
"Very good," says teacher.
An', with that, Sonny he up an' picks up a' orange
an' a' apple off the teacher's desk, an' says he, "This orange is the
earth, an' this here apple is the sun." An', with that, he explained all
they is to total eclipses. I can't begin to tell you thess how he expressed it,
because I ain't highly edjercated myself, an' I don't know the specifactions.
But when he had got thoo, he turned to the teacher, an' says he, "Is they
anything else thet you'd like to know about total eclipses?" An' teacher
says, says he, "Oh, no; not at all."
They do say thet them graduates hadn't never went
so far ez total eclipses, an' teacher wouldn't 'a' had the subject mentioned to
'em for nothin'; but I don't say that's so.
Well, then, Sonny he turned around, an' looked at
the company, an' he says, "Is everybody satisfied?" An' all the
mothers an' fathers nodded their heads "yes."
An' then he waited thess a minute, an' he says,
says he, "Well, now I'll put the next question:
"Sonny Jones," says he, "what is
the difference between dew an' rain an' fog an' hail an' sleet an' snow!
"Is that a hard enough question?"
Well, from that he started in, an' he didn't stop
tell he had expounded about every kind of dampness that ever descended from
heaven or rose from the earth. An' after that, why, he went on a-givin' out one
question after another, an' answerin 'em, tell everybody had declared
theirselves entirely satisfied that he was fully equipped to gradj'ate—an',
tell the truth, I don't doubt thet a heap of 'em felt their minds considerably
relieved to have it safe-t over with without puttin' their grad'jates to shame,
when what does he do but say, "Well, ef you're satisfied, why, I am—an'
yet," says he, "I think I would like to ask myself one or two hard
questions more, thess to make shore." An' befo' anybody could stop him, he
had said:
"Sonny Jones, what is the reason thet a bird
has feathers and a dog has hair?" An' then he turned around deliberate,
an' answered: "I don't know. Teacher, please put that question to the
class."
Teacher had kep' his temper purty well up to this
time, but I see he was mad now, an' he riz from his chair, an' says he:
"This examination has been declared finished, an' I think we have spent ez
much time on it ez we can spare." An' all the mothers they nodded their
heads, an' started a-whisperin'—most impolite.
An' at that, Sonny, why, he thess set down as
modest an' peaceable ez anything; but ez he was settin' he remarked that he was
in hopes thet some o' the reg'lars would 'a' took time to answer a few
questions thet had bothered his mind f'om time to time—an' of c'ose they must
know; which, to my mind, was the modes'est remark a boy ever did make.
Well, sir, that's the way this diplomy was
earned—by a good, hard struggle, in open daylight, by unanymous vote of all
concerned—an' unconcerned, for that matter. An' my opinion is thet if they are
those who have any private opinions about it, an' they didn't express 'em that
day, why they ain't got no right to do it underhanded, ez I am sorry to say has
been done.
But it's his diplomy, an' it's handsomer fixed up
than any in town, an' I doubt ef they ever was one anywhere thet was took more
paternal pride in.
Wife she ain't got so yet thet she can look at it
without sort o' cryin'—thess the look of it seems to bring back the figure o'
the little feller, ez he helt his ground, single-handed, at that gradj'atin'
that day.
Well, sir, we was so pleased to have him turned
out a full gradj'ate thet, after it was all over, why, I riz up then and there,
though I couldn't hardly speak for the lump in my th'oat, an' I said thet I
wanted to announce thet Sonny was goin' to have a gradj'atin' party out at our
farm that day week, an' thet the present company was all invited.
An' he did have it, too; an' they all come, every
mother's son of 'em—from a to izzard—even to them that has expressed secret
dissatisfactions; which they was all welcome, though it does seem to me thet,
ef I 'd been in their places, I'd 'a' hardly had the face to come an' talk,
too.
I'm this kind of a disposition myself: ef I was
ever to go to any kind of a collation thet I expressed disapproval of, why, the
supper couldn't be good enough not to choke me.
An' Sonny, why, he's constructed on the same plan.
We ain't never told him of any o' the remarks thet has been passed. They might
git his little feelin's hurted, an' 't wouldn't do no good, though some few has
been made to his face by one or two smarty, ill-raised boys.
Well, sir, we give 'em a fine party, ef I do say
it myself, an' they all had a good time. Wife she whipped up eggs an' sugar for
a week befo'hand, an' we set the table out under the mulberries. It took eleven
little niggers to wait on 'em, not countin' them thet worked the fly-fans. An'
Sonny he ast the blessin'.
Then, after they'd all et, Sonny he had a'
exhibition of his little specimens. He showed 'em his bird eggs, an' his wood
samples, an' his stamp album, an' his scroll-sawed things, an' his clay-moldin's,
an' all his little menagerie of animals an' things. I rather think everybody
was struck when they found thet Sonny knowed the botanical names of every one
of the animals he's ever tamed, an' every bird. Miss Phoebe, she didn't come to
the front much. She stayed along with wife, an' helped 'tend to the company,
but I could see she looked on with pride; an' I don't want nothin' said about
it, but the boa'd of school directors was so took with the things she had
taught Sonny thet, when the evenin' was over, they ast her to accept a
situation in the academy next year, an' she's goin' to take it.
An' she says thet ef Sonny will take a private
co'se of instruction in nachel sciences, an' go to a few lectures, why, th'
ain't nobody on earth that she 'd ruther see come into that academy ez
teacher,—that is, of co'se, in time. But I doubt ef he'd ever keer for it.
I've always thought thet school-teachin', to be a
success, has to run in families, same ez anythin' else—yet, th' ain't no
tellin'.
I don't keer what he settles on when he's grown; I
expect to take pride in the way he'll do it—an' that's the principal thing,
after all.
It's the "Well done" we're all a-hopin'
to hear at the last day; an' the po' laborer thet digs a good ditch'll have
thess ez good a chance to hear it ez the man that owns the farm.
SONNY "KEEPIN'
COMPANY"
Hello, doc'; come in! Don't ask me to shake hands,
though; 't least, not tell I can drop this 'ere piece o' ribbin.
I never reelized how much shenanigan it took to
tie a bow o' ribbin tell I started experimentin' with this here buggy-whup o'
Sonny's.
An' he wants it tied thess so. He's a reg'lar Miss
Nancy, come to taste.
All the boys, nowadays, they seem to think thet ez
soon ez they commence to keep company, they must have ribbin bows tied on their
buggy-whups—an' I reckon it's in accordance, ef anything is. I thess called you
in to look at his new buggy, doctor. You've had your first innin's, ez the
base-ball fellers says, at all o' his various an' sundry celebrations, from his
first appearance to his gradj'atin', and I'll call your attention to a thing I
wouldn't mention to a' outsider.
Sence he taken a notion to take the girls out
a-ridin', why, I intend for him to do it in proper style; an' I went an'
selected this buggy myself.
It is sort o' fancy, maybe, for the country, but I
knew he'd like it fancy—at his age. I got it good an' high, so's it could
straddle stumps good. They's so many tree-stumps in our woods, an' I know Sonny
ain't a-goin' to drive nowhere but in the woods so long ez they's a livin'
thin' to scurry away at his approach, or a flower left in bloom, or a last
year's bird's nest to gether. An' the little Sweetheart, why, she's got so thet
she's ez anxious to fetch home things to study over ez he is.
Yas; I think it is, ez you say, a fus'-class
little buggy.
Sonny ain't never did nothin' half-ways,—not even
mischief,—an' I ain't a-goin' in, at this stage o' his raisin', to stint him.
List'n at me sayin' "raisin'" ag'in,
after all Miss Phoebe has preached to me about it! She claims thet folks has to
be fetched up,—or "brung up" I believe she calls it,—an' I don't
doubt she knows.
She allows thet pigs is raised, an' potaters, an'
even chickens; an' she said, one day, thet ef I insisted on "raisin'"
child'en, she'd raise a row. She's a quick hand to turn a joke, Miss Phoebe is.
Nobody thet ever lived in Simpkinsville would
claim thet rows couldn't be raised, I'm shore, after all the fuss thet's been
made over puttin' daytime candles in our 'piscopal church. Funny how folks'll
fuss about sech a little thing when, ef they'd stop to think, they's so many
mo' important subjec's thet they could git up diffe'nces of opinion on.
I didn't see no partic'lar use in lightin' the
candles myself, bein' ez we didn't need 'em to see by, an' shorely the good
Lord thet can speak out a sun any time he needs a extry taper couldn't be said
to take no pleasure in a Simpkinsville home-dipped candle. But the way I look at
it, seem like ef some wants em, why not?
Th' ain't nothin' mo' innercent than a lighted
candle,—kep' away up on the wall out o' the draft, the way they are in
church,—an' so, when it come to votin' on it, why, I count peace an' good-will
so far ahead o' taller thet I voted thet I was good for ez many candles ez any
other man would give. An' quick ez I said them words, why, Enoch Johnson up an'
doubled his number. It tickled me to see him do it, too.
Enoch hates me thess because he's got a stupid
boy—like ez ef that was any o' my fault. His Sam failed to pass at the
preliminar' examination, an' wasn't allowed to try for a diplomy in public; an'
Enoch an' his wife, why, they seem to hold it ag'in' me thet Sonny could step
in at the last moment an' take what their boy could n't git th'oo the trials
an' tribulations of a whole year o' bein' teached lessons at home an' wrestled
in prayer over.
I ain't got a thing ag'in' Enoch, not a thing—not
even for makin' me double my number o' candles. Mo' 'n that, I'd brighten up
Sam's mind for 'im in a minute, ef I could.
I never was jealous-hearted. An' neither is Sonny.
He sent Sam a special invite to his gradj'atin'
party, an' give him a seat next to hisself so's he could say "Amen"
to his blessin', thess because he had missed gittin' his diplomy. Everybody
there knowed why he done it.
But talkin' about Sonny being "raised,"
I told Miss Phoebe thet we'd haf to stop sayin' it about him, right or wrong,
ez a person can't raise nothin' higher 'n what he is hisself, an Sonny's taller
'n either wife or me, an' he ain't but sixteen. Ef we raised 'im partly, we
must 'a' sent 'im up the rest o' the way. It's a pleasure to pass a little joke
with Miss Phoebe; she's got sech a good ear to ketch their p'ints.
But, come to growin', Sonny never asked nobody no
odds. He thess stayed stock-still ez long ez he found pleasure in bein' a
little runt, an' then he humped hisself an' shot up same ez a sparrer-grass
stalk. It gives me pleasure to look up to him the way I haf to.
Fact is, he always did require me to look up to
'im, even when I looked down at 'im.
Yas, sir; ez I said, Sonny has commenced keepin'
company,—outspoke,—an' I can't say thet I'm opposed to it, though some would
say he was a little young, maybe. I know when I was his age I had been in love
sev'al times. Of co'se these first little puppy-dog loves, why, th' ain't no
partic'lar harm in 'em—less'n they're opposed.
An' we don't lay out to oppose Sonny—not in
nothin' thet he'll attemp'—after him bein' raised an' guided up to this age.
There goes that word "raisin'" agi'n.
He's been in love with his teacher, Miss Phoebe,
most three years—an' 'cep'n' thet I had a sim'lar experience when I was
sca'cely out o' the cradle, why, I might 'a' took it mo' serious.
That sort o' fallin' in love, why, it comes same
ez the measles or the two-year-old teeth, an' th' ain't nothin' sweeter ef it's
took philosophical.
It's mighty hard, though, for parents, thet knows
thess how recent a child is, to reconcile the facts o' the case with sech
things ez him takin' notice to the color o' ribbin on a middle-aged
school-teacher's hair—an' it sprinkled with gray.
Sonny was worse plegged than most boys, because,
havin' two lady teachers at that time, it took him sort o' duplicated like.
I suppose ef he'd had another, he'd 'a' been
equally distributed on all three.
The way I look at it, a sensible, serious-minded
woman thet starts out to teach school—which little fellers they ain't got no
sense on earth, nohow—ain't got no business with ribbin-bows an' ways an' moles
on their cheek-bones. An' ef they've got knuckles, they ought to be like wife's
or mine, pointed outward for useful service, instid o' bein' turned inside out
to attract a young child's admiration—not thet I hold it against Miss Phoebe
thet her knuckles is reversed. Of co'se she can't be very strong-fingered. No
finger could git much purchase on a dimple.
'T ain't none of her fault, I know. But Sonny has
seen the day thet seem like he couldn't talk about another thing but her an' her
dimpled knuckles—them an' that little brown mole thet sets out on the aidge of
her eyebrow.
I think myself thet that mole looks right well,
for a blemish, which wife says it is, worst kind. But of co'se a child couldn't
be expected to know that. It did seem a redic'lous part o' speech the first
time he mentioned sech a thing to his mother, but a boy o' twelve couldn't be
expected to know the difference between a mountain an' a mole-hill.
I ricollec' he used to talk in his sleep
consider'ble when he was a little chap, an' it always fretted wife turrible.
She'd git up out o' bed thess ez soon ez he'd begin to hold fo'th, an' taller
him over. Whenever she didn't seem to know what else to do, why, she'd taller
him; an' I don't reckon there's anything less injurious to a child, asleep or
awake, than taller.
She's tallored him for his long division, an'
she's tallered him for that blemish on Miss Phoebe's cheek, an' she's tallered
him for clairin' of his th'oat. His other lady teacher, Miss Alviry Sawyer, she
was a single-handed maiden lady long'bout wife's age, an' she didn't have a
feature on earth thet a friend would seem to have a right to mention, she not
bein' to blame; but she had a way o' clairin' her th'oat, sort o' polite, befo'
she'd open her mouth to speak. Sonny, he seemed to think it was mighty graceful
the way she done it, an' he's often imitated it in his little sleep—nights when
he'd eat hot waffles for his supper.
An' wife she'd always jump up an' git the mutton
taller. I never took it serious myself, 'cause I know how a triflin' thing 'll
sometimes turn a level-headed little chap into a drizzlin' ejiot. I been there
myself.
But th' ain't no danger in it, not less'n he's
made a laughin'-stalk of—which is cruelty to animals, an' shouldn't be allowed.
I know when I went to school up here at Sandy
Cri'k, forty year ago, I was teached by a certain single lady that has
subsequently died a nachel death of old age an' virtuous works, an' in them
days she wo'e a knitted collar, an' long curls both sides of her face; an' I've
seen many a night, after the candle was out, thet she'd appear befo' me. She'd
seem to come an' hang over my bed-canopy same ez a chandelier, with them side
curls all a-jinglin' like cut-glass dangles. It's true, she used mostly to
appear with a long peach-switch in her hand, but that was nachel enough, that
bein' the way she most gen'ally approached me in life.
But of co'se I come th'oo without taller. My
mother had thirteen of us, an' ef she'd started anointin' us for all our little
side-curled nightmares, she'd 'a' had to go to goose raisin'.
You see, in them days they used goose grease.
I never to say admired that side-curled lady much,
though she's made some lastin' impressions on me. Why, I could set down now,
an' make a drawin' of that knitted collar she used to wear, an' it over forty
year ago. I ricollec' she was cross-eyed, too, in the eye todes the foot o' the
class, where I'd occasionally set; an', tell the truth, it was the strongest
reason for study thet I had—thess to get on to the side of her certain eye. Th'
ain't anything much mo' tantalizin' to a person than uncertainty in sech
matters.
She was mighty plain, an' yet some o' the boys
seemed to see beauty in her. I know my brother Bob, he confided to mother
once-t thet he thought she looked thess precizely like the Queen o' Sheba
must'a' looked, an' I ricollec' thet he cried bitter because mother told it out
on him at the dinner-table. It was turrible cruel, but she didn't reelize.
I reckon, ef the truth was known, most of us nine
has seen them side curls in our sleep. An' nobody but God an' his angels will
ever know how many of us passed th'oo the valley o' the shadder o' that
singular-appearin' lady, or how often we notified the other eight of the fact,
unbeknowinst to his audience, while they was distributed in their little
trundle-beds.
I sometimes wonder ef they ain't no account took
of little child'en's trials. Seems to me they ought to be a little heavenly
book kep' a-purpose; an' 't wouldn't do no harm ef earthly fathers an' mothers
was occasionally allowed to look over it.
My brother Bob, him thet likened Miss Alviry to
the Queen o' Sheba, always was a sensitive-minded child, an' we all knowed it,
too; and yet, we never called him a thing for months after that but Solomon. We
ought to've been whupped good for it.
Bob ain't never married, an' for a bachelor person
of singular habits, he's kep' ez warm a heart ez ever I see.
I've often deplo'ed him not marryin'. In fact,
sense I see what comfort is to be took in a child, why, I deplo' all the
singular numbers—though the Lord couldn't be expected to have a supply on hand
thess like Sonny to distribute 'round on demand.
But I doubt ef parents knows the difference.
I've noticed thet when they can't take pleasure in
extry smartness in a child, why, they make it up in tracin' resemblances. I
suppose they's parental comfort to be took to in all kinds o' babies. I know
I've seen some dull-eyed ones thet seemed like ez ef they wasn't nothin' for
'em to do but resemble.
But talkin' about Sonny a-fallin' in love with his
teachers, why, they was a time here when he wanted to give away every thing in
the house to first one an' then the other. The first we noticed of it was him
tellin' us how nice Miss Alviry thought his livers and gizzards was. Now,
everybody knows thet they ain't been a chicken thet has died for our
nourishment sence Sonny has cut his eye-teeth but has give up its vitals to
him, an' give 'em willin'ly, they bein' the parts of his choice; an' it was discouragin',
after killin' a useless number o' chickens to git enough to pack his little
lunch-bucket, to have her eat 'em up—an' she forty year old ef she's a day, an'
he not got his growth yet. An' yet, a chicken liver is thess one o' them little
things thet a person couldn't hardly th'ow up to a school-teacher 'thout
seemin' small-minded.
I never did make no open objection to him givin'
away anything to his teachers tell the time he taken a notion to give Miss
Phoebe the plush album out o' the parlor. We was buyin' it on instalments at
twenty-five cents a week, and it wasn't fully installed at the time, an' I told
him it wouldn't never do to give away what wasn't ours.
When it comes to principle, why, I always take a
stand. I thought likely by the time it was ours in full he'd've recovered from
his attackt, an' be willin' for his ma to keep it; an' he was.
An' besides, sence his pet squir'l has done chawed
the plush clean off one corner of it, he says he wouldn't part with it for
nothin'. Of co'se a beast couldn't be expected to reelize the importance o'
plush. An' that's what seems to tickle Sonny so.
We had bought it chiefly on his account, so ez to
git 'im accustomed to seein' handsome things around, so thet when he goes out
into the world he won't need to be flustered by finery.
Wife she's been layin' by egg money all spring to
buy a swingin', silver-plated ice-pitcher, so he'll feel at home with sech
things, an' capable of walkin' up to one an' tiltin' it unconcerned, which is
more'n I can do to this day. I always feel like ez ef I ought to go home an'
put on my Sunday clo'es befo' I can approach one of 'em.
Sech ez that has to be worked into a person's
constitution in youth. The motions of a gourd-dipper, kep' in constant practice
for years, is mighty hard to reverse.
How does that look now, doctor? Yas; I think so,
too. It's tied in a right good bow for a ten-thumbed man, which I shorely am,
come to fingerin' ribbin.
He chose blue because she's got blue eyes—pore
little human! Sir? Who is she, you say? Why, don't you know? She's Joe
Wallace's little Mary Elizabeth—a nice, well-mannered child ez ever lived.
Wife has had her over here to supper sev'al nights
lately, an' Sonny he's took tea over to the Wallaces' once-t or twice-t, an'
they say he shows mighty good table manners, passin' things polite, an' leavin'
proper amounts on his plate. His mother has always teached him keerful. It's
good practice for 'em both. Of co'se Mary Elizabeth she's a year older 'n what
Sonny is, an' she's thess gittin' a little experience out o' him—though she
ain't no ways conscious of it,—an' he 'll gain a good deal o' courage th'oo
keepin' company with a ladylike girl like Mary Elizabeth. That's the way it
goes, an' I think th' ain't nothin' mo' innercent or sweet.
How'd you say that, doctor? S'posin' it wasn't to
turn out that-a-way? Well, bless yo' heart, ef it was to work out in all
seriousness, what could be sweeter 'n little Mary Elizabeth? Sonny ain't got it
in his power to displease us, don't keer what he was to take a notion to,
less'n, of co'se, it was wrong, which it ain't in him to do—not knowin'ly.
You know, Sonny has about decided to take a trip
north, doctor—to New York State. Sir? Oh, no; he ain't goin' to take the co'se
o' lectures thet Miss Phoebe has urged him to take—'t least, that ain't his
intention.
No; he sez thet he don't crave to fit his-self to
teach. He sez he feels like ez ef it would smother him to teach school in a
house all day. He taken that after me.
No; he's goin a-visitin'. Oh, no, sir; we ain't
got no New York kin. He's a-goin' all the way to that strange an' distant State
to call on a man thet he ain't never see, nor any of his family. He's a gentle
man by the name o' Burroughs—John Burroughs. He's a book-writer. The first book
thet Sonny set up nights to read was one o' his'n—all about dumb creatures an'
birds. Sonny acchilly wo'e that book out a-readin' it.
Yas, sir; Sonny says thet ef he could thess take
one long stroll th'oo the woods with him, he'd be willin' to walk to New York
State if necessary. An' we're a-goin' to let 'im go. The purtiest part about it
is thet this here great book-writer has invited him to pay him a visit. Think
o' that, will you? Think of a man thet could think up a whole row o' books
a-takin' sech a' int'res' in our plain little Arkansas Sonny. But he done it;
an' 'mo' 'n that, he remarked in the letter thet it would give him great
pleasure to meet the boy thet had so many mutual friends in common with him, or
some sech remark. Of co'se, in this he referred to dumb brutes, an' even trees,
so Sonny says. Oh, cert'n'y; Sonny writ him first. How would he've knew about
Sonny? Miss Phoebe she encouraged him to write the letter, but it was Sonny's
first idee. An' the answer, why, he's got it framed an' hung up above his
bookshelves between our marriage c'tif'cate an' his diplomy.
He's done sent Sonny his picture, too. He's took
a-settin' up in a' apple-tree. You can tell from a little thing like that thet
a person ain't no dude, an' I like that. We 've put that picture in the front
page of the plush album, an' moved the bishop back one page.
Sonny has sent him a photograph of all our family
took together, an' likely enough he'll have it framed time Sonny arrives there.
When he goes, little Mary Elizabeth, why, she's
offered to take keer of all his harmless live things till he comes back, an' I
s'pose they'll be letters a-passin' back and fo'th. It does seem so funny, when
I think about it. 'Pears like thess the other day thet Mis' Wallace fetched
little Mary Elizabeth over to look at Sonny, an' he on'y three days old. I
ricollec' when she seen 'im she took her little one-year-old finger an' teched
'im on the forehead, an' she says, says she, "Howdy?"—thess
that-a-way. I remember we all thought it was so smart. Seemed like ez ef she
reelized thet he had thess arrived—an' she had thess learned to say
"Howdy," an' she up an' says it.
An' she's ap' at speech yet, so Sonny says. She
don't say much when wife or I are around, which I think is showin' only right
an' proper respec's.
Th' ain't nothin' purtier, to my mind, than for a
young girl to set up at table with her elders, an' to 'tend strictly to
business. Mary Elizabeth'll set th'oo a whole meal, an' sca'cely look up from
her plate. I never did see a little girl do it mo' modest.
Of co'se, Sonny, he bein' at home, an' she bein'
his company, why, he talks constant, an' she'll glance up at him sort o'
sideways occasional. Wife an' me, we find it ez much ez we can do, sometimes,
to hold in; we feel so tickled over their cunnin' little ways together. To see
Sonny politely take her cup o' tea an' po' it out in her saucer to cool for her
so nice, why, it takes all the dignity we can put on to cover our amusement
over it. You see, they've only lately teethed together, them child'en.
I reckon the thing sort o' got started last
summer. I know he give her a flyin' squir'l, an' she embroidered him a
hat-band. I suspicioned then what was comin', an' I advised wife to make up a
few white-bosomed shirts for him, an' she didn't git 'em done none too soon.
'Twasn't no time befo' he called for 'em.
A while back befo' that I taken notice thet he 'd
put a few idees down on sheets o' paper for her to write her compositions by.
Of co'se, he wouldn't write 'em. He's too honest. He'd thess sugges' idees
promiscu'us.
She's got words, so he says, an' so she'd write
out mighty nice compositions by his hints. I taken notice thet in this world
it's often that-a-way; one'll have idees, an' another'll have words. They ain't
always bestowed together. When they are, why, then, I reckon, them are the
book-writers. Sonny he's got purty consider'ble o' both for his age, but, of
co'se, he wouldn't never aspire to put nothin' he could think up into no
printed book, I don't reckon; though he's got three blank books filled with the
routine of "out-door housekeeping," ez he calls it, the way it's kep'
by varmints an' things out o' doors under loose tree-barks an' in all sorts of
outlandish places. I did only last week find a piece o' paper with a po'try
verse on it in his hand-write on his little table. I suspicioned thet it was
his composin', because the name "Mary Elizabeth" occurred in two
places in it, though, of co'se, they's other Mary Elizabeths. He's a goin' to
fetch that housekeepin' book up north with him, an' my opinion is thet he's
a-projec'ing to show it to Mr. Burroughs. But likely he won't have the courage.
Yas; take it all together, I'm glad them two
child'en has took the notion. It'll be a good thing for him whilst he's throwed
in with all sorts o' travelin' folks goin' an' comin' to reelize thet he's got
a little sweetheart at home, an' thet she's bein' loved an' cherished by his
father an' mother du'in' his absence.
Even after they've gone their sep'rate ways, ez
they most likely will in time, it'll be a pleasure to 'em to look back to the
time when they was little sweethearts.
I know I had a number, off an' on, when I was a
youngster, an' they're every one hung up—in my mind, of co'se—in little gilt
frames, each one to herself. An' sometimes, when I think 'em over, I imagine
thet they's sweet, bunches of wild vi'lets a-settin' under every one of 'em—all
'cep'n' one, an' I always seem to see pinks under hers.
An' she's a grandmother now. Funny to think it all
over, ain't it? At this present time she's a tall, thin ol' lady thet fans with
a turkey-tail, an' sets up with the sick. But the way she hangs in her little
frame in my mind, she's a chunky little thing with fat ankles an' wrisses, an'
her two cheeks they hang out of her pink caliker sunbonnet thess like a pair o'
ripe plumgranates.
She was the pinkest little sweetheart thet a
pink-lovin' school-boy ever picked out of a class of thirty-five, I reckon.
Seemed to me everything about her was fat an'
chubby, thess like herself. Ricollec', one day, she dropped her satchel, an'
out rolled the fattest little dictionary I ever see, an' when I see it, seem
like she couldn't nachelly be expected to tote no other kind. I used to take
pleasure in getherin' a pink out o' mother's garden in the mornin's when I'd be
startin' to school, an' slippin' it on to her desk when she wouldn't be
lookin', an' she'd always pin it on her frock when I'd have my head turned the
other way. Then when she'd ketch my eye, she'd turn pinker'n the pink. But she
never mentioned one o' them pinks to me in her life, nor I to her.
Yas; I always think of her little picture with a
bunch o' them old-fashioned garden pinks a settin' under it, an' there they'll
stay ez long ez my old mind is a fitten place for sech sweet-scented pictures
to hang in.
They've been a pleasure to me all my life, an' I'm
glad to see Sonny's a-startin' his little picture-gallery a'ready.
