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UNCLE RODERICK'S STORIES
Uncle Roderick was an old bachelor—as thorough going an old bachelor as any one need wish to see. Some folks said he had a great many droll whims in his head. I don't know how that was; but this I know, that he loved every body, and almost every body loved him. He had evidently seen better days, when, in my boyhood, I first made his acquaintance; or rather, he had been "better off in the world," as the phrase goes. Whether he had been happier, may admit of a question; for the wealthiest man is not always the happiest. There were marks about him which seemed to show that he had been higher on the wheel of fortune, and that the change in his condition had had a chastening effect—just as some fruits become mellower and better after being bruised a little and frost-bitten. He was a great lover of children, and withal an inveterate story-teller.
His memory must have been pretty good, I think; for he would often tell stories to his little friends by the hour, about what happened to him when he was a boy. Some of these stories were funny enough; but the old gentleman usually managed to tack on some good moral to the end of them. By your leave, boys and girls, I will serve up two or three of these stories for an evening's entertainment. They will bear telling the second time, I guess, and I will repeat them, as nearly as my recollection will allow, in the good old bachelor's own words.
STORY FIRST
HONESTY THE BEST POLICY
A person is, on the whole, a great deal better off to be honest. Dishonesty is a losing game. A wise man was once asked what one gained by not telling the truth. The reply was, "Not to be believed when he speaks the truth." He was right. There are a great many other respects, too, in which a dishonest person suffers by his dishonesty. I must tell you what a lie once cost me. I was about nine years old, perhaps. In justice to myself, I ought to say that I was not much addicted to this vice; but told a fib once in a great while, as I am afraid too many other little boys, pretty good on the whole, sometimes allow themselves to do. One very cool day in the spring of the year, my father, who was a farmer, was ploughing, and I was riding horse. I didn't relish the task very well, as I was rather cold, and old Silvertail was full of his mischief. It was a little more than I could do to manage him. Moreover, there was some rare sport going on at home.
"Father," said I, after bearing the penance for the greater part of the forenoon, "how much longer must I stay in the field?"
"About an hour," was the reply.
An hour seemed a great while in the circumstances, and I ventured to say, "I wish I could go home now—my head aches."
"I am very sorry," said my father; "but can't you stay till it is time to go home to dinner?"
I thought not—my headache was getting to be pretty severe.
"Well," said he, taking me off the horse, and no doubt suspecting that my disease was rather in my heart than my head—a suspicion far too well-founded, I am sorry to say—"well, you may go home. I don't want you to work if you are sick. Go straight home, and tell your mother that I say you must take a good large dose of rhubarb. Tell her that I think it will do you a great deal of good!"
There was no alternative. I went home, of course, and delivered the message to my mother. I told her, however, that I thought my head was better, hoping to avoid taking the nauseous medicine. But it was of no use. It was too late. She understood my case as well as my father did. She knew well enough my disease was laziness. So she prepared the rhubarb—an unusually generous dose, I always thought—and I had to swallow every morsel of it. Dear me! how bitter it was! It makes me sick to think of a dose of rhubarb, let me be ever so well. I am sure I would have rode horse all day—and all night, too, for that matter—rather than to have been doctored after that sort. But it cured my laziness pretty effectually, and it was a long time before I told another lie, too.
"Honesty is the best policy," children, depend upon it, though there is another and a better reason, as you very well know, why you should always speak the truth.
STORY SECOND
HOW A ROGUE FEELS WHEN HE IS CAUGHT
When I was a little boy, as near as I can recollect, about nine years of age, I went with my brother one bright Saturday afternoon, when there was no school, to visit at the house of Captain Perry. The captain was esteemed one of the kindest and best-natured neighbors in Willow Lane, where my father lived; and Julian, the captain's eldest son, very near my own age, was, among all the boys at school, my favorite play-fellow. Captain Perry had two bee-hives in his garden, where we were all three at play; and as I watched the busy little fellows at work bringing in honey from the fields, all at once I thought it would be a very fine thing to thrust a stick into a hole which I saw in one of the hives, and bring out some of the honey. My brother and Julian did not quite agree with me in this matter. They thought, as nearly as I can recollect, that there were three good reasons against this mode of obtaining honey: first, I should be likely to get pretty badly stung; secondly, the act would be a very mean and cowardly piece of mischief; and, thirdly, I should be found out.
Still, I was bent on the chivalrous undertaking. I procured a stick of the right size, and marched up to the hive to make the attack. While I was deliberating, with the stick already a little way in the hole, whether I had better thrust it in suddenly, and then scamper away as fast as my legs could carry me, or proceed so deliberately that the bees would not suspect what was the matter, Captain Perry happened to come into the garden; and I was so busy with my mischief, that I did not notice him until he advanced within a rod or two of the bee-hives. He mistrusted what I was about. "Roderick," said he. I looked around. I am sure I would have given all I was worth in the world, not excepting my little pony, which I regarded as a fortune, if, by some magic or other, I could have got out of this scrape. But it was too late. I hung my head down, as may be imagined, while the captain went on with his speech: "Roderick, if I were in your place (I heartily wished he was in my place, but I did not say so; I said nothing, in fact), if I were in your place, I would not disturb those poor, harmless bees, in that way. If you should put that stick into the hive, as you were thinking of doing, it would take the bees a whole week to mend up their cells. That is not the way we get honey. I don't wonder you are fond of honey, though. Children generally are fond of it; and if you will go into the house, Mrs Perry will give you as much as you wish, I am sure."
This was twenty years ago—perhaps more. I have met Captain Perry a hundred times since; yet even now I cannot look upon his frank, honest countenance, but I distinctly call to mind the Quixotic adventure with the bees, and I feel almost as much ashamed as I did when I was detected.
THE WEEKLY NEWSPAPER.
STORY THIRD
THE WEEKLY NEWSPAPER
I never shall forget what a sensation it used to produce in our family, years ago, when the newspaper came. We children—there were three of us, one brother and two sisters—used to watch for the post, on the all-important day, as anxiously as a cat ever watched for a mouse. Peter Packer, the bearer of these weekly dispatches, deserves a little notice. He was a queer man, at least he had that reputation in our neighborhood. As long as I can remember, he went his rounds; and, for aught I know, he is going to this day.
Peter's old mare—she must be mentioned, for the two are almost inseparable—was as odd as he was. I should think she belonged to the same general class and order with Don Quixote's renowned Rosinante; but she had one peculiarity which is not put down in the description of Rosinante, to wit, the faculty of diagonal or oblique locomotion. This mare of Peter's went forward something after the manner of a crab, and a little like a ship with the wind abeam, as the sailors say. It was a standing topic of dispute among us boys, whether the animal went head foremost or not. But that did not matter much, so that she made her circuit—and she always did, punctually; that is, she always came some time or another. Sometimes she was a day or two later than usual; but this never occurred except in the summer season, and it was in this wise: she had a most passionate love for the practical study of botany; and not being allowed, when at home, to pursue her favorite science as often as she wished, owing partly to a want of specimens, and partly to her master's desire to educate her in the more solid branches, she frequently took the liberty to divest herself of her bridle, when standing at the door of her master's customers, and to gallop away in search of flowers. She was a great lover of botany, so much so, that, as I said before, her desire to obtain specimens sometimes interfered a little with her other literary engagements; and I am sure I can forgive her—
"For e'en her failings leaned to virtue's side."
Just so it was with Peter himself. No storm, or tempest, or snow-bank, could detain him—that is, not longer than a day or two—in his weekly round. But he loved the theory of making money as much as his mare loved botany; and he was a practical student, too, and the road which he traveled afforded a good many opportunities both for extending his knowledge of that science and of practically applying his principles. So, between the two, our newspaper sometimes got thoroughly aired before it came to the house. But Peter was punctual—I insist upon it—for he always came some time or another.
When the paper did come, we literally devoured its contents. With us it was an oracle. If the "Courier" affirmed or denied a thing, that was enough for us. It was an end to all debate. How confiding children are! He who has read "Robinson Crusoe" when a boy, finds it almost impossible to regard it a fable when he is a man. The newspaper, that makes its weekly visit to the family circle in the country, leaves the marks of its influence upon the mind and the morals of the child. It forms his tastes and controls his character. How careful, then, should parents be, in the selection of periodicals to be the companions of their children.
STORY FOURTH
THE CIDER PLOT
When I was an apprentice, some years ago, I lived—no matter where, and served—no matter whom. There were three apprentices besides myself; and it seems necessary to say, that, at the time when the incident happened which I am about to relate, we had neither of us completed that branch of husbandry called the sowing of wild oats; and as the soil was very favorable for the development of that species of grain, we were perhaps a little too industriously engaged in its cultivation. We were in great haste to have the oats all sowed in good season.
One day our employer bought a cast of cider—Newark cider, I believe they called it—and the greater portion of it was nicely bottled, and placed in a dark corner of the cellar, to be used, not for making vinegar, or mince pies, but for a very different purpose—which may be surmised by such as remember that in those days the juice of the apple had a much better reputation than it has now. We were allowed our share of the beverage. But we were not satisfied. We resolved ourselves into a sort of committee of the whole, one afternoon; and after a long and somewhat spirited debate, came to the unanimous conclusion that, in the course of human events, it became necessary to employ the most effective measures to procure additional supplies from the cellar. Now it so happened, that these measures were not of the most peaceable and honorable kind. Such was their nature, in fact, that if we had been discovered in the act of resorting to them, it would no doubt have been deemed necessary, in the general course of human events, that we should be soundly whipped.
The plan was to seize a bottle once in a while, something after the manner of privateers; though I believe the trade of privateering is regarded as piracy, now-a-days. How times are changed! We were to go on this expedition in rotation, from the oldest downward. We commenced, and two of us had performed the feat. It came George Reese's turn next. You didn't know George, I suppose. But I wish you had known him. I think you could appreciate the story better, if you knew him as well as I did. Well, George went down cellar, with his pitcher in his hand, thirsting for cider and glory. You must know that there was a flight of stairs that led directly to the cellar from the room we occupied. You should know, too, that we went down without a light, and felt our way in the dark. George had not been below two minutes, when we heard a report from the cellar very like the discharge of a pistol. It was loud enough to alarm the whole house. We were frightened. We had reason to be. Who knows, thought we, but they have set a spring-gun for us, and poor George is badly wounded? We waited in silence, and with not a little anxiety, for our hero to come up.
He came at last, and a sorry looking fellow he was. He was covered from head to foot with yeast! The cook had placed her bottle of emptyings, tightly corked, in the village of cider bottles; and the truth flashed upon us at once, that George had made a mistake, and captured the wrong bottle; and the most of its contents, being a little angry at the time, were discharged into his face. But this was not all. George thought he had encountered a cider bottle, after all, for he could see nothing in the cellar, and he had poured what little remained of his yeast into the pitcher, and brought it up with him. When he made his appearance, there was such a noisy trio of laughter as that old kitchen had seldom heard before. This brought in the cook, and she laughed as loudly as the rest of us. Then, to crown all, the lady of the house, hearing the noise, came to see what we were all about; and she laughed the loudest of any body. I shall never forget the image of George Reese, as he entered that room. It gives me a pain in the side now, only to think of it.
MORAL 1.—Before undertaking any enterprise similar to this cider-plot, it is desirable to count the cost.
MORAL 2.—In your pursuit after glory, take care that you do not come in contact with something else that is not so pleasant.
STORY FIFTH
MY FIRST HUNTING-EXCURSION
I shall never forget the first time I sallied out into the woods to try my hand at hunting. Carlo, the old family dog, went with me, and he was about as green in the matter of securing game as myself. We were pretty well matched, I think. I played the part of Hudibras, as nearly as I can recollect, and Carlo was a second Ralph. I had a most excellent fowling-piece—so they said. It began its career in the French war, and was a very veteran in service. Besides this ancient and honorable weapon, I was provided with all the means and appliances necessary for successful hunting. I was "armed and equipped as the law directs," to employ the words of those semi-annual documents that used to summon me to training.
Well, it was sometime before we—Carlo and I—started any game. Wind-mills were scarce. For one, I began to fear we should have to return without any adventure to call forth our skill and courage. But the brightest time is often just before day, and so it was in this instance. Carlo began presently to bark, and I heard a slight rustling among the leaves in the woods. Sure enough, there was visible a large animal of some kind, though I could not determine precisely what it was, on account of the underbrush. However, I satisfied myself that it was rare game, at any rate; and that point being settled, I took aim and fired.
Carlo immediately ran to the poor victim. He was a courageous fellow, that Carlo, especially after the danger was over. Many a time I have known him make demonstrations as fierce as a tiger when people rode by our house, though he generally took care not to insult them until they were at a convenient distance. Carlo had no notion of being killed, knowing very well that if he were dead, he could be of no service whatever to the world. Hudibras said well when he said,
"That he who fights and runs away,
May live to fight another day."
RODERICK'S FIRST SHOT.
That was good logic. But Carlo went farther than this, even. He was for running away before he fought at all; and so he always did, except when the enemy ran away first, in which case he ran after him, as every chivalrous dog should. In the case of the animal which I shot at, Carlo bounded to his side when the gun was discharged, as I said before. For myself, I did not venture quite so soon, remembering that caution is the parent of safety. By and by, however, I mustered courage, and advanced to the spot. There lay the victim of my first shot! It was one of my father's sheep! Poor creature! She was sick, I believe, and went into a thicket, near a stream of water, where she could die in peace.
I don't know whether I hit her or not. I didn't look to see, but ran home as fast as my legs would carry me. Thus ended the first hunting excursion in which I ever engaged, and, though I was a mere boy then, and am somewhat advanced now, it proved to be my last.
SATURDAY IN WINTER
I
Our tasks are all done, come away! come away!
For a right merry time—for a Saturday play.
See! the bright sun is shining right bravely on high;
Make haste, or he'll soon be half over the sky.
Come! first with our sleds down the glassy hill side,
And then on our skates o'er the river we'll glide.
II
Now, Harry! sit firm on your sled—here we go!
Swift—swift as an arrow let fly from a bow!
Hurrah! downward rushing, how gayly we speed,
Like an Arab away on his fleet-going steed.
Hurrah! bravely done! Down the icy hill side,
Swift—swift as an arrow, again let us glide.
III
And now for the river! How smooth and how bright,
Like a mirror it sleeps in the flashing sunlight.
Be sure, brother Harry, to strap your skates well;
Last time you remember how heavy you fell.
Now away! swift away! why, Harry! not down?
Are you hurt? You must take better care of your
crown.
IV
Up, up, my good brother! now steady! start fair!
Away we go! swift through the keen, frosty air.
Down again! Bless me, Harry! your skates can't be
right—
Just wait till I see—no—but now they are tight.
Here we go again! merry as school-boys can be,
From books, pens, and pencils, and black board, set free.
V
Tired, at last, of our sport, home to dinner we run,
And find that, two hours ago, dinner was done.
But our meat and potatoes we relish quite well,
Though cold—and the reason we scarcely need tell.
Five hours spent in scudding and skating, I ween,
'Twould give to such lads as we, appetites keen.
VI
At last the dim twilight succeeds to the day;
Our week's work is ended, and ended our play.
'Tis Saturday night, and we know with the morn,
Another dear Sabbath of rest will be born.
O'er wearied, we sink into slumber profound,
Assured that God's angels are watching around.
ROVER AND HIS LITTLE MASTER.
ROVER AND HIS LITTLE MASTER
"Come, Rover!" said Harry, as he passed a fine old Newfoundland dog that lay on a mat at the door; "come, Rover! I am going down to the river to sail my boat, and I want you to go with me."
Rover opened his large eyes, and looked lazily at his little master.
"Come! Rover! Rover!"
But the dog didn't care to move, and so Harry went off to the river side alone. He had not been gone a great while, before a thought of her boy came suddenly into the mother's mind. Remembering that he had a little vessel, and that the river was near, it occurred to her that he might have gone there.
Instantly her heart began to throb with alarm.
"Is Harry with you?" she called up to Harry's father, who was in his study. But Harry's father said he was not there.
"I'm afraid he's gone to the river with his boat," said the mother.
"To the river!" And Mr Lee dropped his pen, and came quickly down. Taking up his hat, he went hurriedly from the house. Rover was still lying upon the mat, with his head upon his paws and his eyes shut.
"Rover!" said his master, in a quick, excited voice, "where is Harry? Has he gone to the river? Away and see! quick!"
The dog must have understood every word, for he sprang eagerly to his feet, and rushed toward the river. Mr Lee followed as fast as he could run. When he reached the river bank, he saw his little boy in the water, with Rover dragging him toward the shore. He was just in time to receive the half-drowned child in his arms, and carry him home to his mother.
Harry, who remained insensible, was placed in a warm bed. He soon, however, revived, and in an hour or two was running about again. But after this, Rover would never leave the side of his little master, when he wandered beyond the garden gate. Wherever you found Harry, there Rover was sure to be—sometimes walking by his side, and sometimes lying on the grass, with his big eyes watching every movement.
Once Harry found his little vessel, which had been hidden away since he went with it to the river, and, without his mother's seeing him, he started again for the water. Rover, as usual, was with him. On his way to the river, he saw some flowers, and, in order to gather them, put his boat down upon the grass. Instantly Rover picked it up in his mouth, and walked back toward the house with it. After going a little way, he stopped, looked around, and waited until Harry had got his hand full of flowers. The child then saw that Rover had his boat, and tried to get it from him; but Rover played around him, always keeping out of his reach, and retreating toward the house, until he got back within the gate. Then he bounded into the house, and laid the boat at the feet of Harry's mother.
Harry was a little angry with the good old dog, at first, but when his mother explained to him what Rover meant, he hugged him around the neck, and said he would never go down to the river again any more.
Harry is a man now, and Rover has long since been dead; but he often thinks of the dear old dog that saved him from drowning when he was a child; and it gives him great pleasure to remember that he never beat Rover, as some boys beat their dogs, when they are angry, and was never unkind to him. Had it been otherwise, the thought would have given him great pain.
