Uncle Peabody hurried into the kitchen.

“The Comptroller wants him to go,” said he.

“He does?” she repeated as she stood with her hands on her hips looking up at her brother.

“He likes Bart and wants to take him along.”

“Wal, then, you’ll have to be awful careful of him,” said Aunt Deel.  “I’m ’fraid he’ll plague ye—­ayes!”

“No, he won’t—­we’ll love to have him.”

“Wal, I guess you could git Mary Billings to come over and stay with me an’ help with the chores—­ayes, I wouldn’t wonder!”

I could contain my joy no longer, but ran into the other room on tiptoe and announced excitedly that I was going.  Then I rushed out of the open door and rolled and tumbled in the growing grass, with the dog barking at my side.  In such times of joyful excitement I always rolled and tumbled in the grass.  It was my way of expressing inexpressible delight.

I felt sorry for the dog.  Poor fellow!  He couldn’t go fishing.  He had to stay home always.  I felt sorry for the house and the dooryard and the cows and the grindstone and Aunt Deel.  The glow of the candles and the odor of ham and eggs drew me into the house.  Wistfully I watched the great man as he ate his supper.  I was always hungry those days.  Mr. Wright asked me to have an egg, but I shook my head and said “No, thank you” with sublime self-denial.  At the first hint from Aunt Deel I took my candle and went up to bed.

“I ain’t afraid o’ bears,” I heard myself whispering as I undressed.  I whispered a good deal as my imagination ran away into the near future.

Soon I blew out my candle and got into bed.  The door was open at the foot of the stairs.  I could see the light and hear them talking.  It had been more than a year since Uncle Peabody had promised to take me into the woods fishing, but most of our joys were enriched by long anticipation filled with talk and fancy.

I lay planning my behavior in the woods.  It was to be helpful and polite and generally designed to show that I could be a man among men.  I lay a long time whispering over details.  There was to be no crying, even if I did get hurt a little once in a while.  Men never cried.  Only babies cried.  I could hear Mr. Wright talking about Bucktails and Hunkers below stairs and I could hear the peepers down in the marsh.

Peepers and men who talked politics were alike to me those days.  They were beyond my understanding and generally put me to sleep—­especially the peepers.  In my childhood the peepers were the bells of dream-land calling me to rest.  The sweet sound no sooner caught my ear than my thoughts began to steal away on tiptoe and in a moment the house of my brain was silent and deserted, and thereafter, for a time, only fairy feet came into it.  So even those happy thoughts of a joyous holiday soon left me and I slept.

I was awakened by a cool, gentle hand on my brow.  I opened my eyes and saw the homely and beloved face of Uncle Peabody smiling down at me.  What a face it was!  It welcomed me, always, at the gates of the morning and I saw it in the glow of the candle at night as I set out on my lonely, dreaded voyage into dream-land.  Do you wonder that I stop a moment and wipe my glasses when I think of it?