ll tell you how that affair with the beggar turned--for I
must not make too long a story of it--Uncle Mike brought up the lad.
He taught him all the mysteries of farming, and treated him as if he
were a member of his own family--one of his own children--until he was
twenty-one. Then he told him he was free to go where he chose. He gave
him a hundred dollars in money, a yoke of oxen, a fine colt, and, what
was of more value than all, his blessing.

[Illustration: MIKE MARBLE IN HIS OLD AGE.]

And what do you think became of Fred? He turned out to be not only a
good farmer, but a good neighbor, and a good man, every way. That
same man, who was once a beggar, and who, but for Uncle Mike's odd way
of doing a kind act for him, might have remained a beggar, is now one
of the most highly respected men in his parish, with enough property
to make him and his family comfortable, as well as some to spare for
the comfort of others.

CHAP. XI.

MIKE MARBLE'S LAST DAYS.

I should love to chat about my old friend a good while longer. But
perhaps I had better stop, for fear you may get tired of the theme. I
must tell you a little about his old age, then I will leave off.

He was one of the happiest old men I ever knew. He was always
cheerful. One could never meet him in the street, and look into his
pleasant face, without catching something of his cheerfulness. Bad
humor is catching, you know, as much as the small pox, or the canker
rash, and so is good humor, too. At all events, I remember that once,
when I felt ever so much "out of sorts," because things did not go
right, I came across Uncle Mike, on my way to school, and a chat of
about half a minute completely sweetened my temper.

There was nothing which Uncle Mike liked better, after his hair--the
little hair that time had spared to him--was whitened with age, than
to have a group of children about him, coaxing him to tell them
stories.

Dear old man! my heart blesses him now, as my memory recalls the
scenes in which he used to take a part. With all his oddities and
crotchets, he always had a kind and warm heart beating in his bosom. I
don't believe that he ever had an enemy in the world. Every body, it
always seemed to me, respected him, and those who knew him most, loved
him best.

He possessed an art which is worth more than the finest farm in
America. It was the art of being happy himself, and of making others
happy. He was never out of humor. Nobody co