The St. Cloud journal. [volume] (St. Cloud, Minn.) 1866-1876, 1874-08-06
A BRACE OF BOYS.

I am q bachelor uncle. That, as q
mere fact, might happen to any body;
but l am a bachelor uncle by internal
fitness. lam one essentially, just as
l am an individual of the Caucasian
division Of the human race and if
through untoward circumstances
which Heaven forbid!-I should lose
my present position, I shouldn't be
surprised if you saw me out in the
Herald under "Situations Wanted
Males" Thanks to marrying ten
dency in the rest Of my family, I have
now little need to advertise, all the
business being thrown into my way
which single member Of my profess
sion can attend to.
I suppose you won't agree with me
but do you know sometimes I think
it's better than having children of
ones own? People tell me that I'd
feel very differently if I did have any.
Perhaps so but then, too, I might be
unwise with them. I might bother
them into mischief by trying to keep
them out. I might be avaricious Of
them-might be tempted to lock them
up in my own stingy old nursery
chest, instead Of paying them out to
meet the bills of humanity and keep
the Lords business moving. I might
forget, when I had spent my life in
fining their gold and polishing their
graven-work, that they were still YES
sells for the Masters use-I only the
butler-the sweetness and the spirit
with which they brimmed all belong
ing to His lips who tasted bitterness
for mo Then. if seeking to droin
another's wine, I raised the chalice to
my lips and found it gall, or felt it
steal into my old veins to poison the
heart and paralyze the hand which
had kept it from the Master, what
further good would there be for me in
the world? Who doesn't know in
some friends house closet contain
ing that worst of skeletons the skele-
ton which, in becoming naked, grim,
and CHASTITY, tears its way through
our own flesh and blood?
To be an uncle is different kind
of thing. There you have nothing of
the excitement Of responsibility to
shake your judgment. That's what
makes us bachelor uncles so much bet-
ter judges of what's good for children
than their fathers and mothers. We
know that nobody will blame US if
our nephews unjoint their knuckles
or cut their fingers off; so we give
them fve-bladed knives and boxing
gloves. This involves getting thank
ed at the time, which is pleasant; and
if no catastrophe occurs, when they
have grown stout and ingenious, with
what calm satisfaction we hear people
say, "See what a pretty windmill the
child's whitfield out with Uncle Ned's
birthday PRESENT. or "That boys
grow an inch round the chest since
you set him sparring" Uncles nev-
er get stale. They don't come every
day like parents and plain pudding;
they're a sort Of holiday relative, with
plummy, Christmas favor about
them. Every body hasn't got them !;
they're not so rare as the meteoric
showers, but as occasional as a par
ticularly fine day, and whenever they
come to house they're in the nature
of a pleasant surprise.
meander, like a desultory, placid
river of an old bachelor as I am,
through the fowery mead of several
nurseries. I am detained by ell the
roots that run down into me to drink
happiness, but I linger longest among
the children Of my sister Lu.
Lu married Mr.. Lovegrove. He
is merchant, retired with fortune
amassed by the old-fashioned, slow
processes Of trade, and regards the
mercantile life of the present day only
as SO much greed and gambling
christianity baptised. For the ten
years elapsing since he sold out Of
Lovegrove, Cashdown and Co. he has
devoted himself to his family and a
revival Of letters, taking up again
the Latin and Greek which he had
not looked at since his college days
until he dismissed teas and silks to
adorn a suburban villa with the spec.
tacle of a prime Christian parent and
Pagan scholar. Lu is my favorite
sister; Lovegrove an unusually good
article of brother-in-law; and I can
not say that any of my nieces and
nephews interest me more than their
two children, Daniel and Billy, who
are more unlike than words can paint
them. They are far apart in point o1
years; Daniel is twenty-five, Billy
eleven. I was reminded of this fact
the other day by Billy, as he stood
between my legs, scowling at his book
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