At last the children were left to themselves.  No big people were present.  Then Axel asked if they had ever heard of Uncle Reuben.

He saw how all the eyes flashed and that many small fists were clenched, but it seemed as if the little mouths had been taught respect for Uncle Reuben.  “Hush!” said the whole crowd.

“No!” said Axel; “I want to know if there is any one else whom he tortures, for I think he is the most troublesome of all uncles.”

That one brave word broke the dam which had held in the indignation of those tormented childhearts.  There was a great murmuring and shouting.  So must a crowd of nihilists look when they revile an autocrat.

The poor, great man’s register of sins was unrolled.  Uncle Reuben persecuted the children of all his brothers and sisters.  Uncle Reuben died wherever he chose.  Uncle Reuben was always the same age as the child whose peace he wished to disturb.

And they had to show respect to him, although he was quite plainly a liar.  They might hate him in the most silent depths of their heart, but overlook him or show him disrespect, no, then they were stopped.

What an air the old people put on when they spoke of him!  Had he ever really done anything so wonderful?  To sit down and die was nothing so surprising.  And whatever great thing he may have done, it was certain that he was now abusing his power.  He opposed the children in everything that they wanted to do, the old scarecrow.  He drove them from a noonday nap in the grass.  He had discovered their best hiding places in the park and forbidden them to go there.  His last performance was to ride on barebacked horses and to drive in the hay-rigging.

They were all sure that the poor thing had never been more than three years old.  And now he fell upon the big children of fourteen and insisted that he was their age.  It was the most provoking thing.

It was perfectly incredible what came to light about him.  He had fished from the dam; he had rowed in the little flat-bottomed boat; he had climbed up in the willow which hangs over the water, and in which it was so nice to sit; yes, he had even slept on the powder-horn.

But they were all certain that there was no escape from his tyranny.  It was a relief to have spoken out, but not a remedy.  They could not rebel against Uncle Reuben.

You never would have believed it, but when these children grew to be big and had children of their own, they immediately began to make use of Uncle Reuben, just as their parents had done before them.

And their children again, the young people who are growing up now, have learned their lesson so well, that it happened one summer out in the country that a five-year-old boy came up to his old grandmother Berta, who had sat down on the steps while waiting for the carriage:—­

“Grandmother once had a brother whose name was Reuben.”

“You are quite right, my little boy,” grandmother said, and stood up instantly.