BY R. F. COLWELL.

My father was a physician of good practice in a wealthy quarter of Philadelphia, and we boys, four in number, were encouraged by him to live out of doors as much as possible. We played the national game, rowed, belonged to a well-equipped private gymnasium, and were hale and hearty accordingly; but especially did we prize the spring vacation which was always spent at our grandfather's farm, a beautiful spot in the Juanita valley, shut in by hills and warmed by the sunshine, which always seemed to us to shine especially bright on our annual visit, as if to make up for the cloudy and stormy weather of March.

At the time of which I speak, the anticipations before starting were especially joyous. Harry, Carl and Francis, aged respectively eleven, fourteen and sixteen, had after earnest efforts in their school work been promoted each to the class above his former rank, and were in consequence proud and happy, though tired. I, Royal by name, a junior in a well-known New England college, working steadily in the course, was not unwilling to spend a week or two in quiet, searching the well-stored library which had the best that three generations of book lovers could buy on its shelves, and before whose cheery open fire we gathered at evening for stories and counsel from older and wiser minds.

We packed our bags, took our rods—for trout fishing was often good, even in early April, in a well-stocked brook that ran along willow-fringed banks in the south pasture—and boarded the train. At the station the hired man met us with a pair of Morgan horses than which I do not remember to have seen better from that day to this, and we were soon at the hall door, shaking hands with grandmother and grandfather, and, to our pleasant surprise, with Aunt Celia, who, unexpectedly to us, was at home. She was a widow, having lost her husband in the Mexican war, and was a teacher of modern languages in a girl's private school in southern New York. She was one of those rare natures that the heart instinctively trusts, and no one of the many grandchildren hesitated about telling Aunt Celia his or her troubles, always confident that something would be done toward making the rough place smooth or gaining the object sought.

We had a cozy tea. The special good things that only grandmothers seem to remember that a boy likes were found beside our plates, and we did them ample justice. This was Saturday evening. The next morning we occupied the family pew, and raised our young voices in the familiar hymns so clearly and joyously, that I remember to have seen many of the older people looking in our direction, and one old lady remarked as we were going out, "Henry's boys take after him for their good voices." Father had led the village choir for several years before he went away from his home to the medical school.

The next morning we took our rods and went off for a long tramp. We fished some, and between us brought home enough for next morning's breakfast. The next day we climbed the favorite hills and gathered four large bunches of that spring beauty EpigÆa repens, arbutus, or May flowers, whose pink cups and delicious woody fragrance we entrusted to damp moss, and sent the box with our cards to mother, for we knew how she loved the flowers she had picked from these same hills. Their scent comes back to me now, though it is many years since I have picked one. Carl and Francis were just at the age when feats of daring were a delight to them. Harry was of a naturally timid nature, modest, and lacking sometimes in confidence, and so was often urged on by the other two, when he shrank from attempting anything, by such expressions as "Don't be a coward, Harry!" "A girl could do that!" which, by such a sensitive spirit, were felt more than blows of the lash would be. When I was by, the boys would not indulge in these trials of strength or endurance, but in my absence I knew they hurt his tender feelings by their taunts, though really they did not intend to. A boy looks for what he calls courage in his playmate, and, if he does not see what apparently corresponds to his own, he thinks him a coward, while the braver of the two may really be the more diffident and shrinking one.

It was Saturday afternoon; we were to leave Monday morning, and I had gone to the post-office to mail a letter to our father, telling him to expect us Monday noon. Behind the barn was a large oak tree from whose trunk a long branch ran horizontally toward the shed roof, though at a considerable distance above it. The boys had been pitching quoits near the tree, and, having finished the game, looked about for some more exciting sport. Francis thought he saw it, so he climbed the tree, crept out on the limb, hung by the arms a moment and then dropped, with something of a jar, to be sure, but safely, on the roof, where he sat with a satisfied look. He called to Carl to follow him. Carl, though unwilling to try it, was still more unwilling to acknowledge any superiority of his older brother in that line, so he, too, climbed up, crept out, and, when he had found what he thought was a good place, and had called out two or three times, "Fran, shall I strike all right?" dropped and was happy. Then they both called to Harry, "Come on, Hal," but he, overcome by the fear he had felt that they would fall while attempting it, refused to make the trial. When they began to speak about what "a girl could do," grandfather came out of the back door, where he had been a silent spectator of the whole affair, patted Harry on the shoulder, assuring him that he'd more good sense than Carl and Francis together, and bade the climbers come down at once.

Grandfather was a man of few words, and they obeyed. Nothing more was said. I returned soon after. We had tea as usual and adjourned to the library, where a genial fire of hickory logs warmed and lighted the room. Grandmother and grandfather sat in their armchairs on each side of the broad hearth. I occupied an antique chair I had found in the attic, and which I was to carry home for my own room. Carl and Francis sat on old-fashioned crickets, while Aunt Celia had her low willow rocker in front of the fire, and Harry leaned against her, with her arm around his neck.

We remained silent for some moments, when grandfather said quietly, "Celia, hadn't you better tell the boys the story of the walnut rod?" We looked up in swift surprise. The walnut rod spoken of was one that had rested, ever since we could remember, across a pair of broad antlers over the fireplace, with an old sword and two muskets that had seen service at Bunker Hill and Yorktown. Often had we, in boyish curiosity, asked what it was, and why it was kept there, tied by a piece of faded ribbon to one of the antlers, but had always been put off with "by-and-by," and "when you are older." Now, when we saw a chance to know about it, we chorused, "Oh, yes, Aunt Celia, do tell, please," and she quietly saying, "I suppose they can learn its lesson now," began:

"I was, as you know, the only girl of the family, and also the youngest child, your father being two years older. There were few neighbors when we first came here to live; indeed, our nearest was fully a quarter of a mile away, so we saw few beside our own family. Your uncles, John, William, and Elijah, were several years older, and so were busy helping father in clearing the land and in its care. Accordingly, Henry and I were much together. We studied the same book at our mother's knee, played with the same toys, and were together so much that the older boys sometimes called us 'mother's two girls.' But your father, though tender and gentle in appearance, had a brave heart under his little jacket, and I knew better than they, that he was no coward. They called him so sometimes, thinking, because he seemed fearful about some things they counted trifles, that he really had no courage. I'm afraid boys have forgotten nowadays, that mere daring is no test of true courage." Here Francis and Carl felt their faces grow hot, but Aunt Celia said no more and went on.

"It was one day in April, very like to-day, that we all went upon the side hill to pick May flowers. Henry was nearly twelve years old—his birthday, as you know, is next month—and I was ten. It had always been a habit, when people went out in the spring for flowers, to cut a stout stick, to be used partly as a walking-stick, and partly as a protection against snakes, which were often seen, but which usually escaped before they could be reached. Old people told of rattlesnakes that used to be seen, but they were very scarce, even then, and none of us had ever seen one.

"We all had sticks, cut from a bunch of hickory saplings that grew beside the path, and your uncle Elijah said, as we were going along, 'I wonder what Hen would do if he heard a rattlesnake; turn pale and faint away, I guess,' at which the others laughed loudly, but Henry said nothing, though I saw his lips quiver at the taunt.

"We found the flowers, thick and beautiful, just as you have this week. We picked all we wished, ate the lunch which mother had put up for us, and were sitting on a large, flat stone, talking of starting for home. I saw a bit of pretty moss under some twigs at the edge of the stone, and stepped down to get it, when suddenly a peculiar whir-r-r, that we never had heard before, struck our ears. All the boys started up, looking about eagerly. The bushes at my side parted slightly, and the flattened head of a large rattlesnake protruded, and again came that dreadful sound. Then the boys jumped from the rock, each in a different direction, and screamed, rather than cried, 'Jump, Celia, it's a rattlesnake!'

"I could not move. I must have been paralyzed by fear, for, though I was but a child, I could not misunderstand my danger. Of course, what I am telling happened in a few seconds, but I remember hearing the swish that a stick makes when it cuts through the air, and the horrible head, with its forked, vibrating tongue, was severed from the writhing body, and fell at my feet.

"Harry had quietly stepped down by my side, and with his stick—the one you see on the antlers yonder—had saved me from a dreadful death. There he stood, pale and trembling to be sure, but with such a light in his blue eyes, that none of his older brothers dared ever call him coward, or girl, again. We walked quietly home, bringing the body with its horrible horny scales to show to father and mother. I shall never forget how they clasped us in their arms as they listened to the story, and how I wondered, as a child will, if everybody, when they were grown up, cried when they were very glad.

"Nothing was ever said to the older boys. They had learned what true bravery was, the scorn of self-protection when another needed help, and they have been better for it ever since. Your father has never had the story told to you, thinking that some time it might also teach you the lesson that true courage from its root word, the Latin cor, and down through the French coeur, is both below and above any outward manifestations, and belongs to the heart.

"The snake must have come out into the sun from his den under the rock, and was not as active as in warmer weather, or the bite would have followed the first alarm. There has never since been seen another in this locality."

We sat in silence for awhile, and then grandfather spoke, laying his hand on Harry's curls: "I seem to see my boy Henry again in his son, Harry. I hope he will grow up into the same brave, though tender manhood of his father, and remember, boys," he said, turning toward Francis and Carl, "that recklessness and a desire to be thought bold and daring are not an index of true courage and often have no connection with it. If the walnut rod teaches you this lesson, its story will be of great value to you."