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?"