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'. Yes, that ol' oak was religiously planted, an' we've tried not to offend its first principles in no ways du'in' the years we've nurtured it. An' when I set here an' look at it, an' consider its propensities,--it's got five limbs that seem thess constructed to hold swings,--maybe it's 'cause I was raised Presbyterian an' sort o' can't git shet o' the doctrine o' predestination, but I can't help seemin' to fo'-see them friendly family limbs all fulfillin' their promises. An' when I imagine myself a-settin' there with one little one a-climbin' over me while the rest swings away, why, seem like a person don't no mo' 'n realize he's a descendant befo' he's a' ancestor. End of Project Gutenberg's Sonny, A Christmas Guest, by Ruth McEnery Stuart