ME, MY SON AND UNCLE SCOTT. 



BEFORE retiring my son had carefully arranged 

 his fishing clothes on a chair, while a pair of 

 rubber-soled tennis shoes peered out from under- 

 neath. The short bamboo rod with reel, line and 

 hook, the last mentioned hanging from a swivel, which 

 he was to use on the morrow, stood up in the corner 

 of his room at such angle from the pillow on which 

 he lay his head as to be the first article to meet his 

 gaze on awakening. As a precaution against noise 

 which might disturb the household at the early hour 

 we proposed to go a fishing, he placed a tin bucket 

 close to the foot of the bed where he might not fall 

 over it on arising. 



The near-by barn-yard rooster gave the break of 

 day alarm which aroused my son, who, full of happy 

 anticipations and with that boyish energy which 

 follows undisturbed rest, jumped from his couch and 

 fell over the tin bucket which had been so well placed, 

 its rattling over the bare floor arousing the sleepers 

 throughout the house, including myself. This unin- 

 tentional disturbance caused us both to giggle until 

 dressed, when on tip-toe we gathered up rods and 

 sought the kitchen, where Mary gave us each a fried 

 egg, warm cakes and coffee, together with a pocket 

 lunch. Mary was the colored cook who merrily wished 

 us "good luck" as we hastily and enthusiastically 

 started on our mile walk to the river. It was down 

 hill and through a street of an old town which had 



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