1.  Our bachelor uncle who lived with us was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook.  We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying lot to finish the necessary day’s labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside.

2.  I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday.  I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing pole from my uncle’s hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows.  It was a still, sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before.

3.  My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point.  I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog.  Nothing came of it.  “Try again,” said my uncle.  Suddenly the bait sank out of sight.  “Now for it,” thought I; “here is a fish at last.”

4.  I made a strong pull, and brought up a tangle of weeds.  Again and again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it back empty.  I looked at my uncle appealingly.  “Try once more,” he said; “we fishermen must have patience.”

5.  Suddenly something tugged at my line, and swept off with it into deep water.  Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun.  “Uncle!” I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, “I’ve got a fish!” “Not yet,” said my uncle.  As he spoke there was a plash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream, my hook hung empty from the line.  I had lost my prize.

6.  We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it the young folks don’t agree with us.  Our griefs, modified and restrained by reason, experience and self-respect, keep the proprieties, and, if possible, avoid a scene; but the sorrow of childhood, unreasoning and all-absorbing, is a complete abandonment to the passion.  The doll’s nose is broken, and the world breaks up with it; the marble rolls out of sight, and the solid globe rolls off with the marble.

7.  So, overcome with my great and bitter disappointment, I sat down on the nearest hassock, and for a time refused to be comforted, even by my uncle’s assurance that there were more fish in the brook.  He refitted my bait, and, putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my luck once more.

8.  “But remember, boy,” he said, with his shrewd smile, “never brag of catching a fish until he is on dry ground.  I’ve seen older folks doing that in more ways than one, and so making fools of themselves.  It’s no use to boast of anything until it’s done, nor then, either, for it speaks for itself.”