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?”