proving
too much for his boyish spirit, and ere night fell had done a certain
amount of mischief, although intrinsically he came nearer to being a
perfect child than anyone yet known to the history of the human race.
Thoughtlessly the lad had chopped down one of his father's favorite
date trees, the which when his father observed it, caused considerable
consternation.

"Who did this thing?" he cried angrily, summoning the whole family to
the orchard.

"Father," said Zekel, stepping forward, pale, but courageous, "I
cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little tomahawk."

"Very well, my son," said the old gentleman, pulling a switch from the
fallen tree, and seizing Zekel by the collar, "in order to impress
this date more vividly upon your mind, we will retire to the barn and
indulge in a little palmistry."

Whereupon he withdrew with Zekel from the public gaze and
administered such a rebuke to the boy that forever afterwards the
mere association of ideas made it impossible for Zekel to sit under a
palm tree with any degree of comfort.[2]

[Footnote 2: Editor's Note: It is very interesting to find this story
in the Memoirs of Methuselah owing to its marked resemblance to an
anecdote related of General Washington, in which the youthful father
of his country is represented as having acted in a like manner upon a
later occasion.]

I realize, however, that in writing one's memoirs one should not
withhold the truth if there is to be any justification in the eyes of
posterity for their existence, so I am not going to conceal anything
from my readers that has any important bearing upon my character. Let
me therefore admit here and now, apropos of the charming lines with
which my last chapter was brought to a close, that I have myself at
times written poetry. It is the lamentable fact that in this day and
generation poets are not held in that high esteem which is their due.
We have unfortunately had a number of them in this vicinity of late
years who have not been any too particular about paying their board
bills, and whether their troth has been plighted to our confiding
maidens, or to our trustful tailors, the result has been the
same--they have not been conspicuously present at the date of maturity
of their promises. One very distinguished looking old gentleman in
particular, who registered from Greece, came here several centuries
ago and secured five hundred subscriptions to his book of verses,
collected the first in