brook to fish for lamb
chops or whatever kind of an animal it was that Uncle Peter and
Tacks decided would bite. Aunt Martha posted off to the city on
urgent business, the nature of which she carefully concealed from
everybody.

Clara J. said she'd be delighted to have the house all to herself
for an hour or two, there were so many rooms to look through and so
many plans to make.

Uncle Peter gave her his bow and arrow with full instructions how
to shoot if danger threatened, and Tacks carefully rubbed the steps
leading up to the piazza with soap so the burglar would fall and
break his neck. Then the little shrimp called my attention to his
handiwork and demonstrated its availability by slipping thereon
himself and going the whole distance on his face. He didn't break
his neck, however, so to my mind his burglar alarm failed to make
good.

As time wore on I felt more and more like a mock turtle being led
to the soup house.

The fact that Bunch was sore worried me, and I began to realize
that it was now only a question of a few hours when I'd have to
crawl up to Clara J. and hand in my resignation.

Every time I drew a picture of that scene and heard myself telling
her I was nothing but a fawn-colored four-flush I could see my
future putting on the mitts and getting ready to hand me one.

And when I thought of the dish of fairy tales I had cooked for that
girl I could feel something running around in my head and trying to
hide. I suppose it was my conscience.

At the brook, Uncle Peter began to throw out hints that he was the
original lone fisherman. The lobster never lived that could back
away from him, and as for fly-casting, well, he was Piscatorial
Peter, the Fancy Fish Charmer from Fishkill.

The old gentleman is very rich, but he loves to live around with
his relatives, not because he's stingy, but simply because he likes
them and knows they are good listeners.

Uncle Peter is a reformed money-maker. He wrote the first Monopoly
that ever made faces at a defenceless public. He was the owner of
the first Trust ever captured alive, and he fed it on government
bonds and small dealers till it grew tame enough to eat out of a
pocketbook.

Uncle Peter sat down on a rock overhanging the clay bank which
sloped up about four feet above the lazy brooklet. He carefully
arranged his expensive rod, placed his fish basket near by and
entered into a dissertation on angling that would make old Ike
Walton ge