There lived in the village of C. a kind-hearted old man, who was generally called “Uncle John.” The children loved to hear his stories, and, many a Wednesday afternoon, sat upon the grass at his feet, while he told about what he used to do when he was a boy. One of these stories of his I will tell to you.
“When I was about as high as you are now,” said Uncle John, “I was very fond of playing with gunpowder. All my odd half-pence were carefully saved, to buy the materials for making such fire-works as boys are able to do. I did this secretly, for my mother would never allow me to do so. It happened one day that a gentleman came to visit my father, and among other things, he asked me if I had ever read a little book which he named. When I replied I had not, he gave me some money, saying, ‘I should like to have you buy and read it.’
“‘I wish he had given it to me to buy gunpowder,’ said I to myself as soon as he had gone; for I well knew that no one was aware that I had the money in my possession.
“It then occurred to me that I could still do with it as I pleased; and I bought a quantity of gunpowder. As I was returning home with it, I met a boy of about my own age, with whom I often played.
“‘Come, Harry,’ said I, ‘I’ve got a fine lot of powder, and I want you to come with me this afternoon, and we’ll have real sport.’
“‘Oh! I cannot,’ said Henry.
“‘Why not? It is Saturday, and there is no school this afternoon.’
“‘Yes, I know that,’ he replied; ‘but the truth is, John, my mother has such fears that I shall get killed or hurt, that I’ve promised never to play with powder again.’