“Now that's what's the matter,” said Uncle Eb. “They's some that 'ain't learnt any better than to fight an' quarrel, an' when they git rapped they're goin' t' rap back, an' be a leetle too liberal with the pay.” “But the great school ain't goin' t' be ruled much longer by its primer class,” said the poet. “An' the Principal an' trustees will put an end to fightin' between classes. They find it interferes with the work o' the school, whose great aim is given in three 8046 words: Peace, Happiness, Brotherhood.” “Wal, I'm goin' t' play truant an' go fishin',” said Uncle Eb. “School's dismissed fer the day,” said Feary, as he rose to leave us. “Eb Holden, we're both likely to be promoted before long. We're like two boys who've been away to school. When we get home they're goin' to be glad to see us. Good-bye!” “Good-bye!” So the old man left us, and we sat watching him as he crossed the brook and slowly mounted the green uplands. “Purty good fishin' when Jed Feary's around,” said Uncle Eb, as we slowly made our way to the edge of the woods. “Growin' old, ain't he?—say, if his body fitted his soul what do ye s'pose we'd think o' him? I dunno but we'd 8047 feel like gittin' on our knees when he come around. It wouldn't do. This world's no place fer angels, after all. Wal, come on, le's quit thinkin' an' have some fun.” II 9048 8048 S we entered the cool woods and came where we could hear the song of the brook, Uncle Eb cautioned me in a whisper, just as he used to do: “Now go careful.” I found a rock at the head of a likely stretch of rapids on which he could sit comfortably as he fished. I prepared his tackle and baited his hook for him, and stood by as it went plunking into smooth water. Sitting there, he seemed to forget his feebleness, and his voice and figure were full of animation. His hair, as white as snow, was 8049 like the crown of glory of which David sings. He kept hauling and giving out. Now and then, as he felt a nibble, he addressed the fish: “How d' do? Come ag'in,” he said, as he continued to work his line. “Tut, tut! you're another!” he exclaimed, with a sharp twitch. The trout was a large one, and Uncle Eb, with a six-ounce rod, had not been able to lift and swing him ashore in the old fashion. He held on with jiggling hands and a look of great animation as the fish took line in half a dozen quick rushes. “You're tryin' to jerk me out o' my boots”—the words were emphasized and broken here and there by the struggle. The rod's vibration had got into his voice and all the upper part 8050 of his body. “Stop that, ye scalawag!” he went on. “Consarn ye, come here to me!” He seized the line, flung his rod on the shore, and began to haul vigorously hand over hand. When the splendid fish lay gasping at his feet, Uncle Eb turned to me and shook his head. He sat breathing hard, as if the exertion had wearied him. Soon he took out his jack-knife, a serious look on his face.