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.
[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.