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.

I don’t ask no mo’ ’n thess to pass on whenever the good Lord wills.

But of co’se I ain’t in no hurry, an’ they’s one joy I’d like to feel befo’ that time comes.

I’d love to hol’ Sonny’s baby in my ol’ arms—­his an’ hers—­an’ to see thet the good ol’ name o’ Jones has had safe transportation into one mo’ generation of honest folks.

Sonny an’ Mary Elizabeth are too sweet-hearted an’ true not to be reproduced in detail, an’ passed along.

This here ol’ oak tree thet gran’pa planted when I was a kid, why, it’d be a fine shady place for healthy girls an’ boys to play under.

[Illustration:  “Seem like a person don’t no mo’ ’n realize he’s a descendant befo’ he’s a’ ancestor.”]

When I set here by myself on this po’ch so much these days an’ think,—­an’ remember,—­why I thess wonder over the passage o’ time.

I ricollec’ thess ez well when gran’pa planted that oak saplin’.  My pa he helt it stiddy an’ I handed gran’pa the spade, an’ we took off our hats whilst he repeated a Bible tex’.