The old gentleman is very rich, but he loves to live around with
his relatives, not because he's stingy, but simply because he likes
them and knows they are good listeners.

Uncle Peter is a reformed money-maker. He wrote the first Monopoly
that ever made faces at a defenceless public. He was the owner of
the first Trust ever captured alive, and he fed it on government
bonds and small dealers till it grew tame enough to eat out of a
pocketbook.

Uncle Peter sat down on a rock overhanging the clay bank which
sloped up about four feet above the lazy brooklet. He carefully
arranged his expensive rod, placed his fish basket near by and
entered into a dissertation on angling that would make old Ike
Walton get up and leave the aquarium.

In the meantime Tacks decided to do some bait fishing, so with an
old case knife he sat down behind Uncle Peter and began to dig
under the rock for worms.

"Fishing is the sport of kings," the old man chuckled; "an it's a
long eel that won't turn when trodden upon. If you're not going to
fish, John, do sit down! You're throwing a shadow over the water
and that scares the finny monsters. A fish diet is great for the
brain, John! You should eat more fish."

"There's many a true word spoken from the chest," I sighed, just as
Uncle Peter made his first cast and cleverly wound about eight feet
of line around a spruce tree on the opposite bank.