Sonny, a Christmas Guest

BY RUTH McENERY STUART
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY FANNY Y. CORY
1911
TO MY SON STIRLING McENERY STUART
'I reckon the thing sort o' got started last summer.'
A boy, you say, doctor? An' she don't know it yet? Then what 're you tellin' me for? No, sir—take it away. I don't want to lay my eyes on it till she's saw it—not if I am its father. She's its mother , I reckon!
Better lay it down somew'eres an' go to her —not there on the rockin'-cheer, for somebody to set on—'n' not on the trunk, please. That ain't none o' yo' ord'nary new-born bundles, to be dumped on a box that'll maybe be opened sudden d'rec'ly for somethin' needed, an' be dropped ag'in' the wall-paper behind it.
It's hers , whether she knows it or not. Don't , for gracious sakes, lay 'im on the table! Anybody knows that's bad luck.
You think it might bother her on the bed? She's that bad? An' they ain't no fire kindled in the settin'-room, to lay it in there.
S-i-r? Well, yas, I—I reck'n I'll haf to hold it, ef you say so—that is—of co'se—
Wait , doctor! Don't let go of it yet! Lordy! but I'm thess shore to drop it! Lemme set down first, doctor , here by the fire an' git het th'ugh. Not yet! My ol' shin-bones stan' up thess like a pair o' dog-irons. Lemme bridge 'em over first 'th somethin' soft. That'll do. She patched that quilt herself. Hold on a minute, 'tel I git the aidges of it under my ol' boots, to keep it f'om saggin' down in the middle.
There, now! Merciful goodness, but I never! I'd rather trus' myself with a whole playin' fountain in blowed glass'n sech ez this.