But I reckon we’re all safe-t guarded now.  They ain’t nothin’ on the place thet can fetch it to Sonny, an’ I trust, with care, he may never be exposed.

But I set out to tell you about Sonny’s diristenin’ an’ us turnin’ ’Piscopal.  Ez I said, he never seemed to want baptism, though he had heard us discuss all his life both it an’ vaccination ez the two ordeels to be gone thoo with some time, an’ we’d speculate ez to whether vaccination would take or not, an’ all sech ez that, an’ then, ez I said, after he see what the vaccination was, why he was even mo’ prejudyced agin’ baptism ‘n ever, an’ we ’lowed to let it run on tell sech a time ez he’d decide what name he’d want to take an’ what denomination he’d want to bestow it on him.

Wife, she’s got some ‘Piscopal relations thet she sort o’ looks up to,—­though she don’t own it,—­but she was raised Methodist an’ I was raised a true-blue Presbyterian.  But when we professed after Sonny come we went up together at Methodist meetin’.  What we was after was righteous livin’, an’ we didn’t keer much which denomination helped us to it.

An’ so, feelin’ friendly all roun’ that-a-way, we thought we’d leave Sonny to pick his church when he got ready, an’ then they wouldn’t be nothin’ to undo or do over in case he went over to the ‘Piscopals, which has the name of revisin’ over any other church’ performances—­though sence we’ve turned ’Piscopals we’ve found out that ain’t so.

Of co’se the preachers, they used to talk to us about it once-t in a while,—­seemed to think it ought to be did,—­’ceptin’, of co’se, the Baptists.

Well, sir, it went along so till last week.  Sonny ain’t but, ez I said, thess not quite six year old, an’ ther seemed to be time enough.  But last week he had been playin’ out o’ doors bare-feeted, thess same ez he always does, an’ he tramped on a pine splinter some way.  Of co’se, pine, it’s the safe-t-est splinter a person can run into a foot, on account of its carryin’ its own turpentine in with it to heal up things; but any splinter thet dast to push itself up into a little pink foot is a messenger of trouble, an’ we know it.  An’ so, when we see this one, we tried ever’ way to coax him to let us take it out, but he wouldn’t, of co’se.  He never will, an’ somehow the Lord seems to give ’em ambition to work their own way out mos’ gen’ally.

But, sir, this splinter didn’t seem to have no energy in it.  It thess lodged there, an’ his little foot it commenced to swell, an’ it swole an’ swole tell his little toes stuck out so thet the little pig thet went to market looked like ez ef it wasn’t on speakin’ terms with the little pig thet stayed home, an’ wife an’ me we watched it, an’ I reckon she prayed over it consider’ble, an’ I read a extry psalm at night befo’ I went to bed, all on account o’ that little foot.  An’ night befo’ las’ it was lookin’ mighty angry an’ swole, an’ he had limped an’ “ouched!” consider’ble all day, an’ he was mighty fretful bed-time.