Sonny. He seemed to prefer that religion, an’ of co’se we wouldn’t have
the family divided, so we’re a-goin’ to be ez good ’Piscopals ez we can.
I reckon it’ll come a little bit awkward at first. Seem like I never
will git so thet I can sass back in church ’thout feelin’ sort o’
impident—but I reckon I’ll chirp up an’ come to it, in time.
I never was much of a hand to sound the amens, even in our own
Methodist meetin’s.
Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny’s purty nigh six—but he showed a
pref’ence for the ’Piscopal Church long fo’ he could talk.
When he wasn’t no mo’ ’n three year old we commenced a-takin’ him
round to church wherever they held meetin’s,—’Piscopals, Methodists
or Presbyterians,—so’s he could see an’ hear for hisself. I ca’yed
him to a baptizin’ over to Chinquepin Crik, once-t, when he was three.
I thought I’d let him see it done an’ maybe it might make a good
impression; but no, sir! The Baptists didn’t suit him! Cried ever’
time one was douced, an’ I had to fetch him away. In our Methodist
meetin’s he seemed to git worked up an’ pervoked, some way. An’ the
Presbyterians, he didn’t take no stock in them at all. Ricollect, one
Sunday the preacher, he preached a mighty powerful disco’se on the
doctrine o’ lost infants not ’lected to salvation—an’ Sonny? Why, he
slep’ right thoo it.
The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take in religious
services was at the ’Piscopals, Easter Sunday. When he seen the lilies
an’ the candles he thess clapped his little hands, an’ time the folks
commenced answerin’ back he was tickled all but to death, an’ started
answerin’ hisself—on’y, of co’se he’d answer sort o’ hit an’ miss.
I see then thet Sonny was a natu’al-born ‘Piscopal, an’ we might ez
well make up our minds to it—an’ I told _her_ so, too. They say some
is born so. But we thought we’d let him alone an’ let nature take its
co’se for a while—not pressin’ him one way or another. He never had
showed no disposition to be christened, an’ ever sence the doctor tried
to vaccinate him he seemed to git the notion that christenin’ an’
vaccination was mo’ or less the same thing; an’ sence that time, he’s
been mo’ opposed to it than ever.
Sir? Oh no, sir. He didn’t vaccinate him; he thess tried to do it;
but Sonny, he wouldn’t begin to allow it. We all tried to indoose
’im. I offered him everything on the farm ef he’d thess roll up his
little sleeve an’ let the doctor look at his arm—promised him thet he
wouldn’t tech a needle to it tell he said the word. But he wouldn’t. He
’lowed thet me an’ his mamma could git vaccinated ef we wanted to, but
he wouldn’t.
Then we showed him our marks where we had been vaccinated when we was
little, an’ told him how it had kep’ us clair o’ havin’ the smallpock
all our lives.
Well, sir, it didn’t make no diff’ence whether we’d been did befo’ or
not, he ’lowed thet he wanted to see us vaccinated ag’in.
An’ so, of co’se, thinkin’ it might encour’ge him, we thess had it did
over—tryin’ to coax him to consent after each one, an’ makin’ pertend
like we enjoyed it.
Then, nothin’ would do but the nigger, Dicey, had to be did, an’
then he ’lowed thet he wanted the cat did, an’ I tried to strike a
bargain with him thet if Kitty got vaccinated he would. But he wouldn’t
comp’omise. He thess let on thet Kit had to be did whe’r or no. So I
ast the doctor ef it would likely kill the cat, an’ he said he reckoned
not, though it might sicken her a little. So I told him to go ahead.
Well, sir, befo’ Sonny got thoo, he had had that cat an’ both dogs
vaccinated—but let it tech hisself he would not.
I was mighty sorry not to have it did, ’cause they was a nigger thet
had the smallpock down to Cedar Branch, fifteen mile away, an’ he
didn’t die, neither. He got well. An’ they say when they git well
they’re more fatal to a neighborhood ‘n when they die.
That was fo’ months ago now, but to this day ever’ time the wind blows
from sou’west I feel oneasy, an’ try to entice Sonny to play on the far
side o’ the house.
Well, sir, in about ten days after that we was the down-in-the-mouthest
crowd on that farm, man an’ beast, thet you ever see. Ever’ last one o’
them vaccinations took, sir, an’ took severe, from the cat up.
But I reckon we’re all safe-t guarded now. They ain’t nothin’ on the
place thet can fetch it to Sonny, an’ I trust, with care, he may never
be exposed.
But I set out to tell you about Sonny’s christenin’ an’ us turnin’
‘Piscopal. Ez I said, he never seemed to want baptism, though he had
heard us discuss all his life both it an’ vaccination ez the two
ordeels to be gone thoo with some time, an’ we’d speculate ez to
whether vaccination would take or not, an’ all sech ez that, an’ then,
ez I said, after he see what the vaccination was, why he was even
mo’ prejudyced agin’ baptism ‘n ever, an’ we ’lowed to let it run on
tell sech a time ez he’d decide what name he’d want to take an’ what
denomination he’d want to bestow it on him.
Wife, she’s got some ‘Piscopal relations thet she sort o’ looks up
to,—though she don’t own it,—but she was raised Methodist an’ I was
raised a true-blue Presbyterian. But when we professed after Sonny
come we went up together at Methodist meetin’. What we was after was
righteous livin’, an’ we didn’t keer much which denomination helped us
to it.
An’ so, feelin’ friendly all roun’ that-a-way, we thought we’d
leave Sonny to pick his church when he got ready, an’ then they
wouldn’t be nothin’ to undo or do over in case he went over to the
‘Piscopals, which has the name of revisin’ over any other church’s
performances—though sence we’ve turned ‘Piscopals we’ve found out that
ain’t so.
Of co’se the preachers, they used to talk to us about it once-t in a
while,—seemed to think it ought to be did,—’ceptin’, of co’se, the
Baptists.
Well, sir, it went along so till last week. Sonny ain’t but, ez I said,
thess not quite six year old, an’ they seemed to be time enough. But
last week he had been playin’ out o’ doors bare-feeted, thess same ez
he always does, an’ he tramped on a pine splinter some way. Of co’se,
pine, it’s the safe-t-est splinter a person can run into a foot, on
account of its carryin’ its own turpentine in with it to heal up
things; but any splinter thet dast to push itself up into a little pink
foot is a messenger of trouble, an’ we know it. An’ so, when we see
this one, we tried ever’ way to coax him to let us take it out, but he
wouldn’t, of co’se. He never will, an’ somehow the Lord seems to give
’em ambition to work their own way out mos’ gen’ally.
But, sir, this splinter didn’t seem to have no energy in it. It thess
lodged there, an’ his little foot it commenced to swell, an’ it swole
an’ swole tell his little toes stuck out so thet the little pig thet
went to market looked like ez ef it wasn’t on speakin’ terms with
the little pig thet stayed home, an’ wife an’ me we watched it, an’ I
reckon she prayed over it consider’ble, an’ I read a extry psalm at
night befo’ I went to bed, all on account o’ that little foot. An’
night befo’ las’ it was lookin’ mighty angry an’ swole, an’ he had
limped an’ “ouched!” consider’ble all day, an’ he was mighty fretful
bed-time. So, after he went to sleep, wife she come out on the po’ch
where I was settin’, and she says to me, says she, her face all drawed
up an’ workin’, says she: “Honey,” says she, “I reckon we better
sen’ for him an’ have it did.” Thess so, she said it. “Sen’ for who,
wife?” says I, “an’ have what did?” “Why, sen’ for him, the ‘Piscopal
preacher,” says she, “an’ have Sonny christened. Them little toes o’
hisn is ez red ez cherry tomatoes. They burnt my lips thess now like a
coal o’ fire an’—an’ lockjaw is goin’ roun’ tur’ble.
“Seems to me,” says she, “when he started to git sleepy, he didn’t gap
ez wide ez he gen’ly does—an’ I’m ’feered he’s a-gittin’ it now.” An’,
sir, with that, she thess gathered up her apron an’ mopped her face in
it an’ give way. An’ ez for me, I didn’t seem to have no mo’ backbone
down my spinal colume ‘n a feather bolster has, I was that weak.
I never ast her why she didn’t sen’ for our own preacher. I knowed then
ez well ez ef she’d ’a’ told me why she done it—all on account o’
Sonny bein’ so tickled over the ‘Piscopals’ meetin’s.
It was mos’ nine o’clock then, an’ a dark night, an’ rainin’, but I
never said a word—they wasn’t no room round the edges o’ the lump in
my throat for words to come out ef they’d ’a’ been one surgin’ up there
to say, which they wasn’t—but I thess went out an’ saddled my horse
an’ I rid into town. Stopped first at the doctor’s an’ sent him out,
though I knowed ’twouldn’t do no good; Sonny wouldn’t ’low him to tech
it; but I sent him out anyway, to look at it, an’, ef possible, console
wife a little. Then I rid on to the rector’s an’ ast him to come out
immejate an’ baptize Sonny. But nex’ day was his turn to preach down
at Sandy Crik, an’ he couldn’t come that night, but he promised to
come right after services nex’ mornin’—which he done—rid the whole
fo’teen mile from Sandy Crik here in the rain, too, which I think is a
evidence o’ Christianity, though no sech acts is put down in my book o’
“evidences” where they ought rightfully to be.
Well, sir, when I got home that night, I found wife a heap cheerfuler.
The doctor had give Sonny a big apple to eat an’ pernounced him free
from all symptoms o’ lockjaw. But when I come the little feller had
crawled ’back under the bed an’ lay there, eatin’ his apple, an’ they
couldn’t git him out. Soon ez the doctor had teched a poultice to his
foot he had woke up an’ put a stop to it, an’ then he had went off
by hisself where nothin’ couldn’t pester him, to enjoy his apple in
peace. An’ we never got him out tell he heered us tellin’ the doctor
good-night.
I tried ever’ way to git him out—even took up a coal o’ fire an’ poked
it under at him; but he thess laughed at that an’ helt his apple agin’
it an’ made it sizz. Well, sir, he seemed so tickled that I helt that
coal o’ fire for him tell he cooked a good big spot on one side o’ the
apple, an’ et it, an’ then, when I took it out, he called for another,
but I didn’t give it to him. I don’t see no use in over-indulgin’ a
child. An’ when he knowed the doctor was gone, he come out an’ finished
roastin’ his apple by the fire—thess what was left of it ’round the
co’e.
Well, sir, we was mightily comforted by the doctor’s visit, but nex’
mornin’ things looked purty gloomy ag’in. That little foot seemed
a heap worse, an’ he was sort o’ flushed an’ feverish, an’ wife she
thought she heard a owl hoot, an’ Rover made a mighty funny gurgly
sound in his th’oat like ez ef he had bad news to tell us, but didn’t
have the courage to speak it.
An’ then, on top o’ that, the nigger Dicey, she come in an’ ’lowed
she had dreamed that night about eatin’ spare-ribs, which everybody
knows to dream about fresh pork out o’ season, which this is July,
is considered a shore sign o’ death. Of co’se, wife an’ me, we don’t
b’lieve in no sech ez that, but ef you ever come to see yo’ little
feller’s toes stand out the way Sonny’s done day befo’ yesterday, why,
sir, you’ll be ready to b’lieve anything. It’s so much better now, you
can’t judge of its looks day befo’ yesterday. We never had even so much
ez considered it necessary thet little children should be christened
to have ’em saved, but when things got on the ticklish edge, like they
was then, why, we felt thet the safest side is the wise side, an’, of
co’se, we want Sonny to have the best of everything. So, we was mighty
thankful when we see the rector comin’. But, sir, when I went out to
open the gate for him, what on top o’ this round hemisp’ere do you
reckon Sonny done? Why, sir, he thess took one look at the gate an’
then he cut an’ run hard ez he could—limped acrost the yard thess like
a flash o’ zig-zag lightnin’—an’ ’fore anybody could stop him, he had
clumb to the tip top o’ the butter-bean arbor—clumb it thess like a
cat—an’ there he set, a-swingin’ his feet under him, an’ laughin’, the
rain thess a-streakin’ his hair all over his face.
That bean arbor is a favoryte place for him to escape to, ’cause it’s
too high to reach, an’ it ain’t strong enough to bear no grown-up
person’s weight.
Well, sir, the rector, he come in an’ opened his valise an’ ’rayed
hisself in his robes an’ opened his book, an’ while he was turnin’ the
leaves, he faced ’round an’ says he, lookin’ at me _di_rec’, says he:
“Let the child be brought forward for baptism,” says he, thess
that-a-way.
Well, sir, I looked at wife, an’ wife, she looked at me, an’ then we
both thess looked out at the butter-bean arbor.
I knowed then thet Sonny wasn’t never comin’ down while the rector
was there, an’ rector, he seemed sort o’ fretted for a minute when he
see how things was, an’ he did try to do a little settin’ fo’th of
opinions. He ’lowed, speakin’ in a mighty pompious manner, thet holy
things wasn’t to be trifled with, an’ thet he had come to baptize the
child accordin’ to the rites o’ the church.
Well, that sort o’ talk, it thess rubbed me the wrong way, an’ I up an’
told him thet that might be so, but thet the rites o’ the church didn’t
count for nothin’, on our farm, to the rights o’ the boy!
I reckon it was mighty disrespec’ful o’ me to face him that-a-way, an’
him adorned in all his robes, too, but I’m thess a plain up-an’-down
man an’ I hadn’t went for him to come an’ baptize Sonny to uphold the
granjer of no church. I was ready to do that when the time come, but
right now we was workin’ in Sonny’s interests, an’ I intended to have
it understood that way. An’ it was.
Rector, he’s a mighty good, kind-hearted man, git down to the man
inside the preacher, an’ when he see thess how things stood, why, he
come ’round friendly, an’ he went out on the po’ch an’ united with
us in tryin’ to help coax Sonny down. First started by promisin’ him
speritual benefits, but he soon see that wasn’t no go, and he tried
worldly persuasion; but no, sir, stid o’ him comin’ down, Sonny started
orderin’ the rest of us christened thess the way he done about the
vaccination. But, of co’se, we had been baptized befo’, an’ we nachelly
helt out agin’ that for some time. But d’rec’ly rector, he seemed to
have a sudden idee, an’ says he, facin’ ’round, church-like, to wife
an’ me, says he:
“Have you both been baptized accordin’ to the rites o’ the church?”
An’ me, thinkin’ of co’se he meant the ‘Piscopal Church, says: “No,
sir,” says I, thess so. And then we see that the way was open for us
to be did over ag’in ef we wanted to. So, sir, wife an’ me we was took
into the church, then an’ there. We wouldn’t ’a’ yielded to him,
thoo an’ thoo, that-a-way ag’in ef his little foot hadn’t ’a’’ been
so swole, an’ he maybe takin’ his death o’ cold settin’ out in the
po’in’-down rain; but things bein’ as they was, we went thoo it with
all due respects.
Then he commenced callin’ for Dicey, an’ the dog, an’ the cat, to be
did, same ez he done befo’; but, of co’se, they’s some liberties thet
even a innocent child can’t take with the waters o’ baptism, an’ the
rector he got sort o’ wo’e-out and disgusted an’ ’lowed thet ’less’n we
could get the child ready for baptism he’d haf to go home.
Well, sir, I knowed we wouldn’t never git ’im down, an’ I had went for
the rector to baptize him, an’ I intended to have it did, ef possible.
So, says I, turnin’ ’round an’ facin’ him square, says I: “Rector,”
says I, “why not baptize him where he is? I mean it. The waters o’
Heaven are descendin’ upon him where he sets, an’ seems to me ef he’s
favo’bly situated for anything it is for baptism.” Well, parson, he
thess looked at me up an’ down for a minute, like ez ef he s’picioned
I was wanderin’ in my mind, but he didn’t faze me. I thess kep’ up my
argiment. Says I: “Parson,” says I, speakin’ thess ez ca’m ez I am
this minute—“Parson,” says I, “his little foot is mighty swole, an’
so’e, an’ that splinter—thess s’pose he was to take the lockjaw an’
die—don’t you reckon you might do it where he sets—from where you
stand?”
Wife, she was cryin’ by this time, an’ parson, he claired his th’oat
an’ coughed, an’ then he commenced walkin’ up an’ down, an’ treckly he
stopped, an’ says he, speakin’ mighty reverential an’ serious:
“Lookin’ at this case speritually, an’ as a minister o’ the Gospel,”
says he, “it seems to me thet the question ain’t so much a question of
_doin’_ ez it is a question of _withholdin’_. I don’t know,” says he,
“ez I’ve got a right to withhold the sacrament of baptism from a child
under these circumstances or to deny sech comfort to his parents ez
lies in my power to bestow.”
An’, sir, with that he stepped out to the end o’ the po’ch, opened
his book ag’in, an’ holdin’ up his right hand to’ards Sonny, settin’
on top o’ the bean-arbor in the rain, he commenced to read the
service o’ baptism, an’ we stood proxies—which is a sort o’ a dummy
substitutes—for whatever godfather an’ mother Sonny see fit to choose
in after life.
Parson, he looked half like ez ef he’d laugh once-t. When he had thess
opened his book and started to speak, a sudden streak o’ sunshine shot
out an’ the rain started to ease up, an’ it looked for a minute ez ef
he was goin’ to lose the baptismal waters. But d’rec’ly it come down
stiddy ag’in an’ he went thoo the programme entire.
An’ Sonny, he behaved mighty purty; set up perfec’ly ca’m an’ composed
thoo it all, an’ took everything in good part, though he didn’t
p’intedly know who was bein’ baptized, ’cause, of co’se, he couldn’t
hear the words with the rain in his ears.
He didn’t rightly sense the situation tell it come to the part where it
says: “Name this child,” and, of co’se, I called out to Sonny to name
hisself, which it had always been our intention to let him do.
“Name yo’self, right quick, like a good boy,” says I.
Of co’se Sonny had all his life heered me say thet I was Deuteronomy
Jones, Senior, an’ thet I hoped some day when he got christened he’d be
the junior. He knowed that by heart, an’ would agree to it or dispute
it, ’cordin’ to how the notion took him, and I sort o’ ca’culated thet
he’d out with it now. But no, sir! Not a word! He thess sot up on thet
bean-arbor an’ grinned.
An’ so, feelin’ put to it, with the services suspended over my head, I
spoke up, an’ I says: “Parson,” says I, “I reckon ef he was to speak
his little heart, he’d say Deuteronomy Jones, Junior.” An’ with thet
what does Sonny do but conterdic’ me flat! “No, not Junior! I want to
be named Deuteronomy Jones, Senior!” says he, thess so. An’ parson,
he looked to’ards me, an’ I bowed my head an’ he pronounced thess one
single name, “Deuteronomy,” an’ I see he wasn’t goin’ to say no more
an’ so I spoke up quick, an’ says I: “Parson,” says I, “he has spoke
his heart’s desire. He has named hisself after me entire—Deuteronomy
Jones, Senior.”
An’ so he was obligated to say it, an’ so it is writ in the family
record colume in the big Bible, though I spelt his Senior with a little
s, an’ writ him down ez the only son of the Senior with the big S,
which it seems to me fixes it about right for the time bein’.
Well, when the rector had got thoo an’ he had wropped up his robes an’
put ’em in his wallet, an’ had told us to prepare for conformation, he
pernounced a blessin’ upon us an’ went.
Then Sonny seein’ it was all over, why, _he come down_. He was wet ez
a drownded rat, but wife rubbed him off an’ give him some hot tea an’
he come a-snuggin’ up in my lap, thess ez sweet a child ez you ever
see in yo’ life, an’ I talked to him ez fatherly ez I could, told him
we was all ‘Piscopals now, an’ soon ez his little foot got well I was
goin’ to take him out to Sunday-school to tote a banner—all his little
‘Piscopal friends totes banners—an’ thet he could pick out some purty
candles for the altar, an’ he ’lowed immejate thet he’d buy pink ones.
Sonny always was death on pink—showed it from the time he could snatch
a pink rose—an’ wife she ain’t never dressed him in nothin’ else.
Ever’ pair o’ little breeches he’s got is either pink or pink-trimmed.
Well, I talked along to him till I worked ’round to shamin’ him a
little for havin’ to be christened settin’ up on top a bean-arbor, same
ez a crow-bird, which I told him the parson he wouldn’t ’a’’ done ef
he’d ’a’’ felt free to ’ve left it undone. ’Twasn’t to indulge him he
done it, but to bless him an’ to comfort our hearts. Well, after I had
reasoned with him severe that-a-way a while, he says, says he, thess ez
sweet an’ mild, says he, “Daddy, nex’ time y’all gits christened, I’ll
come down an’ be christened right—like a good boy.”
Th’ ain’t a sweeter child in’ardly ‘n what Sonny is, nowheres, git him
to feel right comf’table, and I know it, an’ that’s why I have patience
with his little out’ard ways.
“Yes, sir,” says he; “nex’ time I’ll be christened like a good boy.”
Then, of co’se, I explained to him thet it couldn’t never be did no
mo’, ’cause it had been did, an’ did ‘Piscopal, which is secure. An’
then what you reckon the little feller said?
Says he, “Yes, daddy, but _s’pos’in’ mine don’t take_. How ’bout that?”
An’ I didn’t try to explain no further. What was the use? Wife, she
had drawed a stool close-t up to my knee, an’ set there sortin’ out
the little yaller rings ez they’d dry out on his head, an’ when he
said that I thess looked at her an’ we both looked at him, an’ says I,
“Wife,” says I, “ef they’s anything in heavenly looks an’ behavior, I
b’lieve that christenin’ is started to take on him a’ready.”
An’ I b’lieve it had.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN
BY
JOHN FOX, JR.
“All that is literature seeks to communicate power.”[6] Here the power
communicated is that of sympathizing with God’s “lesser children.”
The humanitarian story is a long step in advance of the fable. It
recognizes the true relations of the animal world to man, and insists
that it be dealt with righteously and sympathetically.
CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN[7]
No night was this in Hades with solemn-eyed Dante, for Satan was only
a woolly little black dog, and surely no dog was ever more absurdly
misnamed. When Uncle Carey first heard that name, he asked gravely:
“Why, Dinnie, where in h——,” Uncle Carey gulped slightly, “did you
get him?” And Dinnie laughed merrily, for she saw the fun of the
question, and shook her black curls.
“He didn’t come f’um _that place_.”
Distinctly Satan had not come from that place. On the contrary,
he might by a miracle have dropped straight from some Happy
Hunting-Ground, for all the signs he gave of having touched pitch in
this or another sphere. Nothing human was ever born that was gentler,
merrier, more trusting or more lovable than Satan. That was why Uncle
Carey said again gravely that he could hardly tell Satan and his
little mistress apart. He rarely saw them apart, and as both had black
tangled hair and bright black eyes; as one awoke every morning with a
happy smile and the other with a jolly bark; as they played all day
like wind-shaken shadows and each won every heart at first sight—the
likeness was really rather curious. I have always believed that Satan
made the spirit of Dinnie’s house, orthodox and severe though it was,
almost kindly toward his great namesake. I know I have never been able,
since I knew little Satan, to think old Satan as bad as I once painted
him, though I am sure the little dog had many pretty tricks that the
“old boy” doubtless has never used in order to amuse his friends.
“Shut the door, Saty, please,” Dinnie would say, precisely as she would
say it to Uncle Billy, the butler, and straightway Satan would launch
himself at it—bang! He never would learn to close it softly, for Satan
liked that—bang!
If you kept tossing a coin or marble in the air, Satan would keep
catching it and putting it back in your hand for another throw, till
you got tired. Then he would drop it on a piece of rag carpet, snatch
the carpet with his teeth, throw the coin across the room, and rush for
it like mad, until he got tired. If you put a penny on his nose, he
would wait until you counted, one—two—_three_! Then he would toss it
up himself and catch it. Thus, perhaps, Satan grew to love Mammon right
well, but for another and better reason than that he liked simply to
throw it around—as shall now be made plain.