[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.
In a heap o' ways she nears up to us, sech, f' instance, ez when she
taken wife's cook-receipt book to go by in experimentin' with Sonny's
likes an' dislikes. 'T ain't every new-married wife thet's willin' to
sample her husband's tastes by his ma's cook-books.
They seem to think they 're too dictatorial.
But, of co'se, wife's receipts was better 'n most, an' Mary Elizabeth,
she knows that.
She ain't been married but a week, but she's served up sev'al self-made
dishes a'ready--all constructed accordin' to wife's schedule.
Of co'se I could see the diff'ence in the mixin'--but it only amused me.
An' Sonny seemed to think thet, ef anything, they was better 'n they
ever had been--which is only right and proper.
Three days after she was married, the po' little thing whipped up a
b'iled custard for dinner an', some way or other, she put salt in it
'stid o' sugar, and poor Sonny--Well, I never have knew him to lie
outright, befo', but he smacked his lips over it an' said it was the
most delicious custard he had ever e't in his life, an' then, when he
had done finished his first saucer an' said, "No, thank you, I won't
choose any more," to a second helpin', why, she tasted it an' thess bust
out a-cryin'.
But I reckon that was partly because she was sort o' on edge yet from
the excitement of new housekeepin' and the head o' the table.
Well, I felt mighty sorry to see her in tears, an' what does Sonny do
but insist on eatin' the whole dish o' custard, an' soon ez I could git
a chance, I took him aside an' give him a little dose-t o' pain-killer,
an' I took a few drops myself.
I had felt obligated to swaller a few spoonfuls o' the salted custard
when she'd be lookin' my way, an' I felt like ez ef I was pizened, an'
so I thess took the painkiller ez a sort o' anecdote.
Another way Mary Elizabeth shows sense is the way she accepts
discipline from the ol' nigger, Dicey.
She's mighty old an' strenuous now, Dicey is, an' she thinks because she
was present at Sonny's birth an' before it, thet she's privileged to
correct him for anything he does, and we've always indulged her in it,
an' thess ez soon as she knowed what was brewin' 'twix' him an' Mary
Elizabeth, why, she took her into the same custody, an' it's too cute
for anything the way the little girl takes a scoldin' from her--thess
winkin' at Sonny an' me while she receives it.
An' the ol' nigger'd lay down her life for her most ez quick ez she
would for Sonny.
She was the first to open our eyes to the state of affairs 'twixt the
two child'en, that ol' nigger was. It was the first year Sonny went
North. He had writ home to his ma from New York State, and said thet Mr.
Burroughs had looked over his little writings an' said they was good
enough to be printed an' bound up in a book.
Wife, she read the letter out loud, ez she always done, an' we noticed
thet when we come to that, Mary Elizabeth slipped out o' the room; but
we didn't think nothin' of it tell direc'ly ol' Dicey, she come in
tickled all but to death to tell us thet the little girl was out on the
po'ch with her face hid in the honeysuckle vines, cryin' thess ez hard
as we was. So then, of co'se, we knowed that ef the co'se of true love
could be allowed to run smooth for once-t, she was fo'-ordained to be
our little blessin'--an' his--that is, so far as she was concerned.
Of co'se we was even a little tenderer todes her, after that, than we
had been befo'.
That was over five year ago, an' th' ain't been a day sca'cely sence
then but we've seen her, an' in my jedgment they won't be nothin'
lackin' in her thet's needful in a little wife--not a thing.
Ef they's anything in long acquaintance, they've certainly knowed one
another all the time they've had.
Of co'se Mary Elizabeth, she ain't to say got Sonny's thoughts, exac'ly,
where it comes to sech a thing ez book-writin', but he says she's a heap
better educated 'n what he is.
She's got all her tuition repo'ts du'in' the whole time she attended
school, an' mostly all her precentages was up close onto the hund'eds.
Sonny never was no hand on earth to git good reports at school.
They was always so low down in figgurs thet he calls 'em his "misconduc'
slips."
But they ain't a one he's ever got, takin' 'em from the beginnin' clean
up to the day o' his gradjuatin', thet ain't got some lovin' remark
inscribed acrost it from his teacher--not a one.
Even them that wrastled with him most severe has writ him down friendly
an' kind.
An' little Mary Elizabeth--why, she's took every last one of 'em an'
she's feather-stitched 'em aroun' the edges an' sewed 'em up into a sort
o' little book, an' tied a ribbin' bow acrost it. I don't know whether
she done it on account o' the teacher's remarks or not--but she cert'n'y
does prize that pamphlet.
She thinks so much of it thet I been advisin' her to take out a fire
insu'ance on it.
In a heap o' ways she thess perzacly suits Sonny. Lookin' at it from one
p'int o' view, she's a sort o' dictionary to him.
Whenever Sonny finds hisself short of a date, f' instance, or some
unreasonable spellin' 'll bother 'im, why, he'll apply to her for it an'
she'll hand it out to him, intac'. I ain't never knew her to fail.
You see, while Sonny's thoughts is purty far-reachin' in some ways, he's
received his education so sort o' hit an' miss thet the things he knows
ain't to say catalogued in his mind, an' while he'll know one fac',
maybe he won't be able to recall another thet seems to belong hand in
hand with it. An' that's one reason why I say thet little Mary Elizabeth
is thess the wife for him.
She may not bother about the whys an' wherefores, but she's got the
statistics.
It's always well, in a married couple, to have either one or the other
statistical, so thet any needed fac' can be had on demand.
Wife, she was a heap more gifted that-a-way 'n what I was, but of co'se
hers wasn't so much book statistics.
She could give the name an' age of every cow an' calf on the farm, an'
relate any circumstance thet has took place within her recollection or
mine without the loss of a single date or any gain through imagination,
either.
I don't know but I think that's a greater gif' than the other, to be
able to reproduce a event after a long time without sort o' thess
techin' it up with a little exaggeration.
Th' ain't no finer trait, in my opinion, _in man or woman_, than
dependableness, an' that's another reason I take sech special delight in
the little daughter, Mary Elizabeth.
If she tells you a thing's black, why you may know it don't lean todes
brown or gray. It's thess a dismal black.
She may hate to say it, an' show her hatred in a dozen lovin', regretful
ways, but out it'll come.
An' I think thet any man thet can count on a devoted wife for
_exactitude_ is blessed beyond common.
So many exac' women is col'-breasted an' severe. An' ef I had to take
one or the other, why, I'd let my wife prevaricate a little, ef need
be, befo' I'd relinquish warmheartedness, an' the power to command
peacefulness an' rest, an' make things comfortable an' homely, day in
an' day out.
Maybe I'm unprincipled in that, but life is so short, an' ef we didn't
have lovin' ways to lengthen out our days, why I don't think I'd keer to
bother with it, less'n, of co'se, I might be needful to somebody else.
Yas, doc', I 'm mighty happy in the little daughter--an' the book--an'
the blessed boy hisself. Maybe I'm too talkative on the subject, but the
way I feel about him, I might discuss him forever, an' then they'd be
thess a little sweetness left over thet I couldn't put into words about
him.
Not thet he's faultless. I don't suppose they ever was a boy on earth
thet had mo' faults 'n Sonny, but they ain't one he's got thet I don't
seem to cherish because I know it's rooted in honest soil.
You may strike a weed now an' ag'in, but he don't grow no pizen vines in
his little wilderness o' short-comin's. Th' ain't no nettles in his
garden o' faults. That ain't a bad figgur o' speech for a ol' man like
me, is it, doctor?
But nex' time he stops an' tells you I'm sick, you thess tell him to go
about his business.
I'm failin' in stren'th ez the days go--an' I know it--an' it's all
right.