Book: Sonny, A Christmas Guest

R >> Ruth McEnery Stuart >> Sonny, A Christmas Guest




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.


[Illustration: "What could be sweeter 'n little Mary Elizabeth?"]


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.




WEDDIN' PRESENTS

[Illustration: 'T']


That you, doctor? Hitch up, an' come right in.

You say Sonny called by an' ast you to drop in to see me?

But I ain't sick. I'm thess settin'out here on the po'ch, upholstered
with pillers this-a-way on account o' the spine o' my back feelin' sort
o' porely. The way I ache--I reckon likely ez not it's a-fixin' to rain.
Ef I don't seem to him quite ez chirpy I ought to be, why Sonny he gets
oneasy an' goes for you, an' when I object--not thet I ain't always glad
to see you, doctor--why, he th'ows up to me thet that's the way we
always done about him when de was in his first childhood. An' ef you
ricollec'--why, it's about true. He says he's boss now, an' turn about
is fair play.

My pulse ain't no ways discordant, is it? No, I thought not. Of co'se,
ez you say, I s'pose it's sort o' different to a younger person's, an'
then I've been so worked up lately thet my heart's bound to be more or
less frustrated, and Sonny says a person's heart reg'lates his pulse.

I reckon I ain't ez strong ez I ought to be, maybe, or I wouldn't cry so
easy ez what I do. I been settin' here, pretty near boo-hoo-in' for the
last half-hour, over the weddin' presents Sonny has thess been a-givin'
me.

Last week it was a daughter, little Mary Elizabeth--an' now it's his
book.

They was to 've come together. The book was printed and was to 've been
received here on Sonny's weddin'-day, but it didn't git in on time. But
I counted it in ez one o' my weddin' presents from Sonny, give to me on
the occasion of his marriage, thess the same, though I didn't know about
the inscription thet he's inscribed inside it tell it arrived--an' I'm
glad I didn't.

Ef I'd 've knew that day, when my heart was already in my win'-pipe,
thet he had give out to the world by sech a printed declaration ez that
thet he had to say dedicated all his work in life, _in advance_, to my
ol' soul, I couldn't no mo' 've kep' up my behavior 'n nothin'.

I'm glad you think I don't need no physic, doctor. I never was no hand
to swaller medicine when I was young, and the obnoxion seems to grow on
me ez I git older.

Not all that toddy? You'll have me in a drunkard's grave yet,--you an'
Sonny together,--ef I don't watch out.

That nutmeg gives it a mighty good flavor, doc'. Ef any thing ever does
make me intemp'rate, why, it'll be the nutmeg an' sugar thet you all
smuggle the liquor to me in.

It does make me see clairer, I vow it does, either the nutmeg or the
sperit, one.

There's Sonny's step, now. I can tell it quick ez he sets it on the back
steps. Sence I'm sort o' laid up, Sonny gits into the saddle every day
an' rides over the place an' gives orders for me.

Come out here, son, an' shake hands with the doctor.

Pretty warm, you say it is, son! An' th' ain't nothin' goin' astray on
the place? Well, that's good. An', doc', here, he says thet his bill for
this visit is a unwarranted extravagance 'cause they ain't a thing I
need but to start on the downward way thet leads to ruin. He's got me
all threatened with the tremens now, so thet I hardly know how to match
my pronouns to suit their genders an' persons. He's give me fully a
tablespoonful o' the reverend stuff in one toddy. I tell him he must
write out a prescription for the gold cure an' leave it with me, so's in
case he should drop off befo' I need it, I could git it, 'thout applyin'
to a strange doctor an' disgracin' everybody in America by the name o'
Jones.

Do you notice how strong he favors _her_ to-day, doctor?

I don't know whether it's the toddy I've took thet calls my attention to
it or not.


[Illustration: "When I set here by myself on this po'ch so much these
days an' think."]


She always seemed to see me in him--but I never could. Far ez I can
see, he never taken nothin' from me but his sect--an' yo' name, son, of
co'se. 'Cep'in' for me, you couldn't 'a' been no Jones--'t least not in
our branch.

Put yo' hand on my forr'd, son, an' bresh it up'ards a few times, while
I shet my eyes.

Do you know when he does that, doc', I couldn't tell his hand from hers.

He taken his touch after her, exact--an' his hands, too, sech good firm
fingers, not all plowed out o' shape, like mine. I never seemed to
reelize it tell she'd passed away.

That'll do now, boy. I know you want to go in an' see where the little
wife is, an' I've no doubt you'll find her with a wishful look in her
eyes, wonderin' what keeps you out here so long.

Funny, doctor, how seein' him and little Mary Elizabeth together brings
back my own youth to me--an' wife's.

From the first day we was married to the day we laid her away under the
poplars, the first thing I done on enterin' the house was to wonder
where she was an' go an' find her. An' quick ez I'd git her located,
why, I'd feel sort o' rested, an' know things was all right.

Heap of his ma's ways I seem to see in Sonny since she's went.

An' what do you think, doc'? He's took to kissin' me nights and mornin's
since she's passed away, an' I couldn't tell you how it seems to comfort
me.

Maybe that sounds strange to you in a grown-up man, but it don't come no
ways strange to me--not from Sonny. Now he's started it, seems like ez
ef I'd 've missed it if he hadn't.

Ez I look back, they ain't no lovin' way thet a boy could have thet
ain't seemed to come nachel to him--not a one. An' his little wife, Mary
Elizabeth, why, they never was a sweeter daughter on earth.

An' ef I do say it ez shouldn't, their weddin' was the purtiest thet has
ever took place in this county--in my ricollection, which goes back
distinc' for over sixty year.

Everybody loves little Mary Elizabeth, an' th' aint a man, woman, or
child in the place but doted on Sonny, even befo' he turned into a
book-writer. But, of co'se, all the great honors they laid on him--the
weddin' supper an' dance in the Simpkins's barn, the dec'rations o'
the church that embraced so many things he's lectured about an' all
that--why they was all meant to show fo'th how everybody took pride in
him, ez a author o' printed books.

You see he has give' twelve lectures in the academy each term for the
last three years, after studyin' them three winters in New York, each
year's lectures different, but all relatin' to our own forests an' their
dumb population. That's what he calls 'em. Th' ain't a boy thet has
attended the academy, sence he's took the nachel history to teach,
but'll tell you thess what kind o' inhabitants to look for on any
particular tree. Nearly every boy in the county's got a cabinet--an'
most of 'em have carpentered 'em theirselves, though I taught 'em how to
do that after the pattern Sonny got me to make his by--an' you'll find
all sorts o' specimens of what they designate ez "summer an' winter
resorts" in pieces of bark an' cobweb an' ol' twisted tree-leaves in
every one of 'em.

The boys thet dec'rated the barn for the dance say thet they ain't a
tree Sonny ever lectured about but was represented in the ornaments
tacked up ag'inst the wall, an' they wasn't a space big ez yo' hand, ez
you know, doctor, thet wasn't covered with some sort o' evergreen or
berry-branch, or somethin'.

An' have you heerd what the ol' nigger Proph' says? Of co'se he's all
unhinged in the top story ez anybody would be thet lived in the woods
an' e't sca'cely anything but herbs an' berries. But, anyhow, he's got
a sort o' gift o' prophecy an' insight, ez we all know.

Well, Proph', he sez that while the weddin' march was bein' played in
the church the night o' Sonny's weddin' thet he couldn't hear his own
ears for the racket among all the live things in the woods. An' he says
thet they wasn't a frog, or a cricket, or katydid, or nothin', but up
an' played on its little instrument, an' thet every note they sounded
fitted into the church music--even to the mockin'-bird an' the
screech-owl.

Of co'se, I don't say it's so, but the ol' nigger swears to it, an' ef
you dispute it with him an' ask him how it come thet nobody else didn't
hear it, why he says that's because them thet live in houses an' eat
flesh ain't got the love o' Grod in their hearts, an' can't expect to
hear the songs of the songless an' speech of the speechless.

That's a toler'ble high-falutin figgur o' speech for a nigger, but it's
thess the way he expresses it.

You know he's been seen holdin' conversation with dumb brutes, more 'n
once-t--in broad daylight.

Of co'se, we can't be shore thet they was rejoicin' expressed in the
underbrush an' the forests, ez he says, but I do say, ez I said before,
thet Sonny an' the little girl has had the purtiest an' joyfulest
weddin' I ever see in this county, an' a good time was had by everybody
present. An' it has made me mighty happy--it an' its results.

They say a son is a son till he gets him a wife, but 't ain't so in this
case, shore. I've gained thess ez sweet a daughter ez I could 'a' picked
out ef I'd 'a' had the whole world to select from.

Little Mary Elizabeth has been mighty dear to our hearts for a long
time, an' when wife passed away, although the weddin' hadn't took place
yet, she bestowed a mother's partin' blessin' on her, an' give Sonny a
lot o' private advice about her disposition, an' how he ought to
reg'late hisself to deal with it.

You see, Mary Elizabeth stayed along with us so much durin' the seasons
he was away in New York, thet we got to know all her crotchets an'
quavers, an' she ain't got a mean one, neither.

But _they're there_. An' they have to be dealt with, lovin'. Fact is,
th' ain't no other proper way to deal with nothin', in my opinion.

We was ruther glad to find out some little twists in her disposition,
wife an' me was, 'cause ef we hadn't discovered none, why we'd 'a' felt
shore she had some in'ard deceit or somethin'. No person can't be
perfec', an' when I see people always outwardly serene, I mistrust their
insides.

But little Mary Elizabeth, why, she ain't none too angelic to git a good
healthy spell o' the pouts once-t in a while, but ef she's handled kind
an' tender, why, she'll come thoo without havin' to humble herself with
apologies.

It depends largely upon how a pout is took, whether it'll contrac'
itself into a hard knot an' give trouble or thess loosen up into a
good-natured smile, an' the oftener they are let out that-a-way, the
seldomer they'll come.

Little Mary Elizabeth, why, she looks so purty when she pouts, now, that
I've been tempted sometimes to pervoke her to it, thess to witness the
new set o' dimples she'll turn out on short notice; but I ain't never
done it. I know a dimple thet's called into bein' too often in youth is
li'ble to lay the foundation of a wrinkle in old age.

But takin' her right along stiddy, day in an' day out, she's got a good
sunny disposition an' is mighty lovin' and kind.

An' as to character and dependableness, why, she's thess ez sound ez
a bell.

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