THE WALNUT ROD.
BY R. F. COLWELL.
My father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of Philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. We played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the Juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of March.
At the time of which I speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. Harry, Carl and Francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. I, Royal by name, a junior in a well-known New England college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds.
We packed our bags, took our rods—for trout fishing was often good, even in early April, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture—and boarded the train. At the station the hired man met us with a pair of Morgan horses than which I do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with Aunt Celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. She was a widow, having lost her husband in the Mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern New York. She was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling Aunt Celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought.
We had a cozy tea. The special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. This was Saturday evening. The next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that I remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "Henry's boys take after him for their good voices." Father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school.