a man, in his own estimation, but
not greatly or generally beloved by his neighbors. He was a
church-going man, and had a knack, somehow or other, of getting along
decently with the forms--the outside garments, so to speak--of
religion. It was really astonishing how glibly he would _talk_ about
religion. But as to the practical part of it, he did not succeed as
well. That was up-hill work for the old man.

He found it exceedingly difficult to keep himself "unspotted from the
world." Some of his nearest neighbors thought they could count a great
many worldly spots upon him. I don't know how that was, as I never was
acquainted with the man, and ought not to judge him too harshly.
Indeed, Uncle Frank must endeavor to keep in mind, that with what
measure we mete it shall be measured to us again. But from all the
shreds and patches of his history that have come down to the present
day, Mr. Birch does seem to have been a selfish man, and a great deal
too fond of money.

My young friend, it is one of the most difficult things in this
world, to act up to the spirit of the golden rule of our Lord, and do
to others as we would have them do to us, when we are as full as we
can hold of selfishness. You may lay that thought up in your memory.

Billy Birch found that truth out. What did he care how many
newly-planted hills of corn and rows of peas his hens might scratch
up, provided the corn was not his corn, and the peas were not his
peas, and provided he did not have to suffer for the scratching? Not a
mill. He would sit, smoking his pipe--for he was a great smoker--in
the old, straight-backed oak chair on the stoop, as cool as a
cucumber, while the biggest rooster on his premises, the lord of the
whole barn-yard, was leading a regiment of hens and petty roosters in
a crusade upon Squire Chapman's corn-field across the way; and if the
Squire or one of his boys came over to inform him what havoc the hens
were making, and to ask him what to do with the troublesome creatures,
the old man would perhaps take his pipe out of his mouth, and, after
slowly puffing out a cloud of smoke, would say, "Why, drive them out,
to be sure!"

What did he care, if his old mare--who, by the way, was a very nervous
sort of a mare, and could not stay long in one spot--what did he care,
if the old creature did jump over the six-rail fence around the good
parson's field of clover, and eat what she wanted, and trample down,
in her nervous way of doing t