Wreaths of Friendship: A Gift for the Young

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.

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