Here's the doctor, now! Hello, Doc, come right in! Here's yo' patient, settin' up on the po'ch, big ez life; but when we sent for you this mornin' it seemed thess hit an' miss whether he'd come thoo or not.

Thess the same sort o' spells he's had all along, doctor,—seems you can't never see 'im in one,—all brought on by us a-crossin' 'im. His gran'ma insisted on hidin' the clock when he wanted it; but I reckon she'll hardly resk it ag'in, she's that skeert. He's been settin' on the flo' there thess the way you see 'im now, with that clock in his lap, all mornin'.

Of co'se it thess took him about ten minutes to bu'st all the little things his gran'ma give him to play with, 'n' then he nachelly called for the clock; 'n' when she wasn't forthcomin' immejate, why, he thess stiffened out in a spell.

Of co'se we put the timepiece into his hands quick ez we could onclinch 'em, an' sent for you. But quick ez he see the clock, he come thoo. But you was already gone for, then.

His gran'ma she got considerable fretted because he's broke off the long han' o' the clock; but I don't see much out o' the way about that. Ef a person thess remembers thet the long han' is the short han'—why, 't ain't no trouble.

An' she does make 'im so contented an' happy! Thess look at his face, now! What is the face-vally of a clock, I like to know, compared to that?

But of co'se the ol' lady she's gettin' on in years, and then she's my wife's mother, which makes her my direc' mother-in-law; an' so I'm slow to conterdic' anything she says, an' I guess her idees o' regulatin' childern—not to say clocks—is sort o' diff'rent to wife's an' mine. She goes in for reg'lar discipline, same ez she got an' survived in her day; an' of co'se, ez Sonny come to her ez gran'son the same day he was born to us ez plain son, we never like to lift our voices ag'in anything she says.

She loves him thess ez well ez we do, only on a diff'rent plan. She give him the only spankin' he's ever had—an' the only silver cup.

Even wife an' me we had diff'rent idees on the subjec' o' Sonny's raisin'; but somehow, in all our ca'culations, we never seemed to realize that he'd have idees.

Why, that two-year-old boy settin' there regulatin' that clock warn't no mo' 'n to say a pink spot on the piller 'fo' he commenced to set fo'th his idees, and he ain't never backed down on no principle thet he set fo'th, to this day.

For example, wife an' me, why, we argued back an' fo'th consider'ble on the subjec' of his meal-hours, ez you might say, she contendin' for promiskyus refreshment an' me for schedule time.

This, of co'se, was thess projeckin' 'fo' the new boa'der ac-chilly arrived, He not bein' here yet, we didn't have much to do but speculate about him. Lookin' back'ards now, it seems to me we couldn't'a' had nothin' to do, day or night, 'fo' he come.

But, ez I was sayin', she was for meals at all hours, an' I was for the twenty-minutes-for-refreshment plan, an' we discussed it consider'ble, me always knowin', but never lettin' on, thet of co'se she, havin' what you might call a molopoly on the restaurant, could easy have things her own way, ef she'd choose.

But, sir, from the time he looked over that bill o' fare an' put his finger on what he'd have, an' when, that boy ain't never failed to call for it, an' get it, day 'r night.

But, talkin' 'bout the clock, it did seem funny for him to keep her goin' 'thout no key.

But somehow he'd work it thet that alarm 'd go off in the dead hours o' night, key or no key, an' her an' me we'd jump out o' bed like ez ef we was shot; and do you b'lieve thet that baby, not able to talk, an' havin' on'y half 'is teeth, he ain't never failed to wake up an' roa' out a-laughin' ever' time that clock 'd go off in the night!

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.

You say they ain't apt to be fatal, doctor—them spells!

Well—but you ain't never saw him in one yet. They're reg'lar death-spells, doctor.

Tell you the truth, they was the 'casion of us j'inin' the church, them spells was.

Says I to wife—standin' beside him one day, and he black in the face—says I, "Wife," says I, "I reckon you an' me better try to live mo' righteously 'n what we've been doin', or he'll be took from us." An', sir, the very nex' communion we both up an' perfessed. An' I started sayin' grace at table, an' lef' off the on'y cuss-word I ever did use, which was "durn." An', maybe I oughtn't to say it, but I miss that word yet. I didn't often call on it, but I always knowed 't was there when needed, and it backed me up, somehow—thess the way knowin' I had a frock-coat in the press has helped me wear out ol' clo'es. I ain't never had on that frock-coat sence I was married in it seventeen year ago; but, sir, ever sence I've knew the moths had chawed it up, th' ain't been a day but I've felt shabby.

Sir? Yas, sir; we've waited a long time. It's seventeen year, come this spring, sence we married. Our first child could easy 'a' been sixteen year ol', 'stid o' two, ef Sonny'd come on time, but he ain't never been known to hurry hisself. But it does look like, with seventeen year for reflection, an' nothin' to do but study up other folks's mistakes with their childern, we ought to be able to raise him right. Wife an' me we fully agree upon one p'int, 'n' that is, thet mo' childern 'r' sp'iled thoo bein' crossed an' hindered 'n any other way. Why, sir, them we 've see' grow up roun' this country hev been fed on daily rations of "dont's!" an' "stops!" an' "quits!"—an' most of 'em brought up by hand at that!

An' so, ez I say, we don't never cross Sonny, useless. Of co'se when he's been sick we have helt his little nose an' insisted on things; but I reckon we 've made it up to him afterwards, so's he wouldn't take it amiss.

Oh, yas, sir; he called me "daddy" hisself, 'n' I never learned it to him, neither. I was layin' out to learn 'im to say "papa" to me, in time; but I 'lowed I 'd hol' back tell he called her name first. Seemed like that was her right, somehow, after all thet had passed 'twixt him an' her; an' in all her baby-talk to him I took notice she'd bring the "mama" in constant.

So of co'se I laid low, hopin' some day he 'd ketch it—an' he did. He wasn't no mo' 'n 'bout three months ol' when he said it; 'n' then, 'fo' I could ketch my breath, hardly, an put in my claim, what does he do but square aroun', an', lookin' at me direc', say "dada!" thess like that.

There's the secon' bell, doctor. 'Sh! Don't ring no mo', Dicey! We're a-comin'!

At the first bell the roller-towel an' basin gen'ally holds a reception; but to-day bein' Sunday—

What? Can't stay? But you must. Quick ez Sonny come thoo this mornin', wife took to the kitchen, 'cause, she says, says she, "Likely ez not the doctor 'll miss his dinner on the road, 'n' I 'll turn in with Dicey an' see thet he makes it up on supper."

"Eat an' run?" Why not, I like to know? Come on out. Wife's at the roller-towel now, and she 'll be here in a minute.

Come on, Sonny. Let "dada" tote the clock for you. No? Wants to tote 'er hisself? Well, he shall, too.

But befo' we go out, doc, say that over ag'in, please.

Yas, I understan'. Quick ez he's took with a spell, you say, th'ow col' water in his face, an' "never min' ef he cries"!

I'll try it, doctor; but, 'twixt me an' you, I doubt ef anybody on the lot'll have the courage to douse 'im. Maybe we might call in somebody passin', an' git them to do it. But for the rest,—the bath an' the mustard,—of co'se it shall be did correct. You see, the trouble hez always been thet befo' we could git any physic measured out, he come thoo.

Many's the time that horse hez been saddled to sen' for you befo' to-day. He thess happened to get out o' sight to-day when Sonny seemed to feel the clock in his hands, an' he come thoo 'thout us givin' him anything but the clock—an' it external.

Walk out, doctor.