Sech ez that has to be worked into a person’s constitution in youth.  The motions of a gourd-dipper, kep’ in constant practice for years, is mighty hard to reverse.

How does that look now, doctor?  Yas; I think so, too.  It’s tied in a right good bow for a ten-thumbed man, which I shorely am, come to fingerin’ ribbin.

He chose blue because she’s got blue eyes—­pore little human!  Sir? Who is she, you say?  Why, don’t you know?  She’s Joe Wallace’s little Mary Elizabeth—­a nice, well-mannered child ez ever lived.

[Illustration:  “What could be sweeter ’n little Mary Elizabeth?”]

Wife has had her over here to supper sev’al nights lately, an’ Sonny he’s took tea over to the Wallaces’ once-t or twice-t, an’ they say he shows mighty good table manners, passin’ things polite, an’ leavin’ proper amounts on his plate.  His mother has always teached him keerful.  It’s good practice for ’em both.  Of co’se Mary Elizabeth she’s a year older ‘n what Sonny is, an’ she’s thess gittin’ a little experience out o’ him—­though she ain’t no ways conscious of it,—­an’ he ’ll gain a good deal o’ courage th’oo keepin’ company with a ladylike girl like Mary Elizabeth.  That’s the way it goes, an’ I think th’ ain’t nothin’ mo’ innercent or sweet.

How’d you say that, doctor?  S’posin’ it wasn’t to turn out that-a-way?  Well, bless yo’ heart, ef it was to work out in all seriousness, what could be sweeter ’n little Mary Elizabeth?  Sonny ain’t got it in his power to displease us, don’t keer what he was to take a notion to, less’n, of co’se, it was wrong, which it ain’t in him to do—­not knowin’ly.

You know, Sonny has about decided to take a trip north, doctor—­to New York State.  Sir?  Oh, no; he ain’t goin’ to take the co’se o’ lectures thet Miss Phoebe has urged him to take—­’t least, that ain’t his intention.

No; he sez thet he don’t crave to fit his-self to teach.  He sez he feels like ez ef it would smother him to teach school in a house all day.  He taken that after me.

No; he’s goin a-visitin’.  Oh, no, sir; we ain’t got no New York kin.  He’s a-goin’ all the way to that strange an’ distant State to call on a man thet he ain’t never see, nor any of his family.  He’s a gentle man by the name o’ Burroughs—­John Burroughs.  He’s a book-writer.  The first book thet Sonny set up nights to read was one o’ his’n—­all about dumb creatures an’ birds.  Sonny acchilly wo’e that book out a-readin’ it.

Yas, sir; Sonny says thet ef he could thess take one long stroll th’oo the woods with him, he’d be willin’ to walk to New York State if necessary.  An’ we’re a-goin’ to let ’im go.  The purtiest part about it is thet this here great book-writer has invited him to pay him a visit.  Think o’ that, will you?  Think of a man thet could think up a whole row o’ books a-takin’ sech a’ int’res’ in our plain little Arkansas Sonny.  But he done it; an’ ‘mo’ ’n that, he remarked in the letter thet it would