Why, sir, it’s worked on me so, sometimes, thet I’ve broke out in a col’ sweat, an’ set up the balance o’ the night—­an’ I ain’t to say high-strung, neither.

No, sir, we ain’t never named ’im yet.  Somehow, we don’t seem to be able to confine ourselves to no three or four names for ’im, for so we thess decided to let it run along so—­he thess goin’ by the name o’ “Sonny” tell sech a time ez he sees fit to name ’isself.

Of co’se I sort o’ ca’culate on him takin’ the “Junior,” an’ lettin’ me tack a capital “S” an’ a little “r” to my name ‘fo’ I die; which would nachelly call attention to him direc’ eve’y time I’d sign my signature.

Deuteronomy Jones ain’t to say a purty name, maybe; but it’s scriptu’al—­so far ez my parents could make it.  Of co’se the Jones—­well, they couldn’t help that no mo’ ’n I can help it, or Sonny, or his junior, thet, of co’se, may never be called on to appear in the flesh, Sonny not bein’ quite thoo with his stomach-teeth yet, an’ bein’ subject to croup, both of which has snapped off many a fam’ly tree fore to-day.  But I reckon the Joneses ain’t suffered much that a-way.  I doubt ef any of ’em has ever left ‘thout passin’ the name on—­not knowin’ positive, but thess jedgin’.  None o’ mine ain’t, I know, leastwise none of my direc’ ancestors—­they couldn’t have, an’ me here, an’ Sonny.

Don’t jump, doctor!  That’s the supper-bell.  ’Tis purty loud, but that’s on account o’ my mother-in-law.  She’s stone-deef—­can’t hear thunder; but I told wife thet I thought we owed it to her to do the best we could to reach her, and I had that bell made a-purpose.

Now, some men they’d slight a mother-in-law like that, an’ maybe ring a dummy at her; but that’s thess where I differ.  I don’t forget where I get my benefits, an’ ef it hadn’t ‘a’ been for her, the family circle o’ Deuteronomy Jones would be quite diff’rent to what it is.  She’s handed down some of Sonny’s best traits to him, too.

I don’t say she give him his hearin’, less’n she give ’m all she had—­which, of co’se, I’m thess a-jokin’, which is a sin, an’ her stone-deef, and Sonny thess come thoo a death-spell!

Me havin’ that extry sized bell made thess out of respects to her tickled her mightily.

Come along, Sonny!  He heerd the bell, an’ he knows what it means.  That’s right—­fetch the clock along.

Sonny’s cheer is toler’ble low, an’ he’s took a notion to set on the clock mealtimes.  I thess lay ’er face down’ards in his cheer, ‘n’ I don’t know ez it hurts her any; ‘n’ then it saves the dictionary, too.

She did strike that a-way one day, and Sonny was so tickled he purty near choked on a batter-cake, he laughed so.  He has broke sev’ral casters tryin’ to jostle her into doin’ it again, but somehow she won’t.  Seem like a clock kin be about ez contrary ez anything else, once’t git her back up.

He got so worked up over her not strikin’ that a-way one day thet he stiffened out in a spell, then an’ there.