Short Stories for English Courses

V >> Various (Rosa M. R. Mikels ed.) >> Short Stories for English Courses

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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.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN

BY JOHN FOX, JR.

"All that is literature seeks to communicate power." [Footnote: De
Quincey, "Letters to a Young Man."] 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

[Footnote: From "Christmas Eve on Lonesome," by John Fox, Jr.
Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]

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.

A rubber ball with a hole in it was his favorite plaything, and he
would take it in his mouth and rush around the house like a child,
squeezing it to make it whistle. When he got a new ball, he would
hide his old one away until the new one was the worse worn of the
two, and then he would bring out the old one again. If Dinnie gave
him a nickel or a dime, when they went down-town, Satan would rush
into a store, rear up on the counter where the rubber balls were
kept, drop the coin, and get a ball for himself. Thus, Satan
learned finance. He began to hoard his pennies, and one day Uncle
Carey found a pile of seventeen under a corner of the carpet.
Usually he carried to Dinnie all coins that he found in the
street, but he showed one day that he was going into the ball-
business for himself.

Uncle Carey had given Dinnie a nickel for some candy, and, as
usual, Satan trotted down the street behind her. As usual, Satan
stopped before the knick-knack shop.

"Tum on, Saty," said Dinnie. Satan reared against the door as he
always did, and Dinnie said again:

"Tum on, Saty." As usual, Satan dropped to his haunches, but what
was unusual, he failed to bark. Now Dinnie had got a new ball for
Satan only that morning, so Dinnie stamped her foot.

"I tell you to tum on, Saty." Satan never moved. He looked at
Dinnie as much as to say:

"I have never disobeyed you before, little mistress, but this time
I have an excellent reason for what must seem to you very bad
manners--" and being a gentleman withal, Satan rose on his
haunches and begged.

"You're des a pig, Saty," said Dinnie, but with a sigh for the
candy that was not to be, Dinnie opened the door, and Satan, to
her wonder, rushed to the counter, put his forepaws on it, and
dropped from his mouth a dime. Satan had found that coin on the
street. He didn't bark for change, nor beg for two balls, but he
had got it in his woolly little head, somehow, that in that store
a coin meant a ball, though never before nor afterward did he try
to get a ball for a penny.

Satan slept in Uncle Carey's room, for of all people, after
Dinnie, Satan loved Uncle Carey best. Every day at noon he would
go to an upstairs window and watch the cars come around the
corner, until a very tall, square-shouldered young man swung to
the ground, and down Satan would scamper--yelping--to meet him at
the gate. If Uncle Carey, after supper and when Dinnie was in bed,
started out of the house, still in his business clothes, Satan
would leap out before him, knowing that he too might be allowed to
go; but if Uncle Carey had put on black clothes that showed a big,
dazzling shirt-front, and picked up his high hat, Satan would sit
perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as there were no
parties or theatres for Dinnie, so there were none for him. But no
matter how late it was when Uncle Carey came home, he always saw
Satan's little black nose against the window-pane and heard his
bark of welcome.

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