SONNY'S CHRISTENIN'

[Footnote: From "Sonny, a Christmas Guest," by Ruth McEnery

Stuart. Copyright, 1896, by The Century Co. Reprinted by special

permission.]

Yas, sir, wife an' me, we've turned 'Piscopals--all on account o'

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 you'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 diristenin' 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'

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' ther 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't wouldn'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 'way 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. Sonny's Christenin'

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 Direc',

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'

dreckly 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.