and contemplating the aggregate of his wealth, than he did when he
pulled on his first pair of boots?) So, as I said, we rolled up our
pants, and waded in for the trout. We caught a beautiful string of
twenty or more, took them home, dressed them nicely, and sat them
carefully away in the cool cellar. We had a notion that the greatness
of the prize would wipe away the offence by which it was secured, and
that the delicious breakfast they would afford, would be received as a
sufficient atonement for the sin of having taken them on a Sunday. But
we were never more mistaken in our lives. My father went into the
cellar for some purpose in the evening, after his return from meeting,
and discovered the trout. An inquiry was instituted, our dereliction
was exposed, and we were promised a flogging. Now that was a promise,
which, while it was rarely made, was never broken. When my father in
his calm, quiet way, made up his mind and so expressed it, that he
owed one of his boys a flogging, it became, as it were, a debt of
honor, what, in modern parlance, would be termed a confidential debt,
and he to whom it was acknowledged to be due, became a prefered
creditor, and was sure to be paid.

"Well, the trout were eaten for breakfast, and after the meal was
over, my brother and myself were duly paid off, at a hundred cents on
the dollar, with full interest. That flogging cured me of 'tickling'
trout, especially on Sunday. I am never tempted to take trout with my
hands, without feeling a tickling sensation about the back; and though
old recollections of the long past, of that pleasant stream and the
gorge through which it flowed, with the side hill covered with old
forests above it, and the green fields spread out on the other side,
of the home of my boyhood, the old log-house, the cattle, the sheep,
the old watch-dog, and the thousand other things around which memory
loves to linger, come clustering around my heart, yet conspicuous