I had a third uncle, my father's youngest brother, who lived in Vislöf, three Swedish miles from Fjelkinge. The second day after my arrival he sent his son asking me to come to him immediately, as he had been waiting for me a long time, and I went to his house the same evening. This uncle had been stricken with paralysis two or three years before, and been a bed-ridden invalid ever since, unable to use his limbs, and at times even to speak. His eldest son had gone to Minnesota the previous summer. The evening which I spent at his bedside was a remarkable one. As soon as I approached his bed he partly raised himself to sitting posture and began to speak, which he had not been able to do for a long time. His wife was sick abed in another room, but his youngest son and two daughters were at his bedside with myself. He said he had been wanting to die for a long time, but when he had heard that I was to visit Sweden he wished to live until he could see me again. He asked me to tell all about my father, our family and friends, and his eldest son. Then he asked me to take his family with me to America when he was dead. When he had no more questions to ask or anything to communicate he sent his son for two of the neighbors, said good-bye to all of us with the exclamation: "Thanks for all you have related and promised! Now I am ready to die! Farewell! God bless you all!" after which he breathed his last. The following spring his family accompanied me to Minnesota. I decided to spend New Year's eve with one of my most intimate boyhood friends, Mr. Nils Bengtson, in the little village of Skoglösa, where I was born. Some of the dearest friends of my parents and a number of my childhood acquaintances were present there, and on New Year's day we attended services together in the old church at Önnestad. My presence was expected, and the church was crowded with people who had been friends and neighbors of my parents, or school and playmates of myself. Even the pastor had chosen a text applicable to me: "I think of the bygone days, and of the time that is past." The solemn services made a deep impression on all of us. A day or two later, in company with some friends I visited the little cottage where I was born, and where a number of the neighbors had now gathered to see me. One of my earliest recollections from childhood was the spruce tree, which, as I mentioned in the first chapter, was planted in the little garden by my parents. It was the only tree of its kind for a great distance around. It had grown to be a foot in diameter, was very beautiful, and was the pride not only of the present owner of the little farm, but of the whole neighborhood. After breaking off a sprig or two of the tree to carry back to my parents, we left the place early in the evening for Nils Bengtson's home, which was about half a mile distant, and where I was still a guest.