The Cambria freeman. [volume] (Ebensburg, Pa.) 1867-1938, 1892-05-20


Celia, hadn't You better tell the boys
the story of the walnut rod?" We
looked mp in swift surprise. The wal
nut rod spoken of was one that had
rested, ever since we coUld remember.
across n pair of broad antlcrs over the
fireplace, with an old sword and two
muskets that had seen service at
Bunker Hill and Yorktown. Often had
we, in boyish curiosity, asked what IL
was. and why it was kept there, tied
by piece of faded ribbon to one of the
antlers, but had always been put OFF
with by and by" and when You are
older" Now, when we saw a chance
to know about it, we chorused: "Oh!
yes, Aunt Celia, do tell, please" and
she, quietly saying: Il suppose they
can learn its lesson now" began:
Il was, os you know, the only girl of
the family, and also the youngest
child, your father being two years
older. There were few neigh bors
when we first came here to live; in
decd, our nearest was fully quarter
of mile away, SO we SAW few besides
our own family. Your uncles, John.
William and Elijah, were several years
older, and SO were busy helping father
in clearing the land and in its care,
Accordingly Henry and / were much
together. We studied the same book
ut our mothers knee, played with the
same toys and were together so much
that the older boys sometimes called
us mothers two girls But your IA
ther, though tender and gentle in ap-
pearance, had bravo heart under his
little jacket, and / knew better than
they that he was no coward. They
called him so sometimes, thinking. be-
cause ne seemed fearful about some
things they counted trines, that
he really had no courage. I'm afraid
boys have forgotten nowadays that
mere daring is no test of true courage"
Here, Francis and Carl felt their faces
grow hot but Aunt Celia said no more
and went on:
1t was one day in April, very like
today, that we all went upon the side
hill TO pick May flowers. Henry was
nearly twelve years o.d, his birthday,
as you know, IS next month, and ! was
ten 1t had always been a habit, when
people went ont in the spring for flow
crS, to cut 4 stout stick, TO be used
partly as a walking stick, and partly
as a protection against snakes. which
Were often seen, but which usually es-
capped before they could be reached
Old people told of rattlcsnalIcs that
used to be seen, but they were very
scarce, even then, and none of US had
ever seen one.
I'VE all had sticks cut from a bunch
of hickory saplings that grew beside
the path, and your uncle liiah said,
Is we were going along: 1 wonder
what Hen would do if he heard a rat
tlesnalle: turn pale and faint away,
f-h ha oil
loudly, but Henry said nothing, though
saw his lips quiver at the taunt
we found the flowers, thick and
beautiful, just as you have this week.
We picked all VIC wished, ate the lunch
which mother had put up for us, and
were sitting on a large, fiat stone, talk
ing of starting for home. ! saw bit
of pretty moss under some twigs at the
edge of the stone, and stepped down to
get 1t, when suddenly n peculiar
whir-r-r, that we never had heard be-
fore, struck our ears. All the boys
started up, looking about eagerly. The
bushes at my side parted slightly, and
the fiatteDed head of large rattle
snake protruded, and again came that
dreadful sound Then the boys jumped
from the rock, each in a different direc-
tion, and screamed, rather than cried:
Jump, Celia. it's rattlesnake-'
Il could not move. ! must have been
paralyzed by fear, for, though l was
but child, l could not misunderstood
my danger. OF course, what l am tell
ing Happened in few seconds, but |
remember hearing the swish that Z
stick makes when it cuts through the
air, and the horrible head, with its
forlled. vibrating tongue, was severed
from the writhing body, and fell AT my
feet
Harry had quietly stepped down by
my side, and with his stick, the one
you see on the antlers yonder, had
saved me from a dreadful death. There
he stood, pale and trembling TO be sure,
but with such a light in his blue eyes,
that none of his older brothers dared
ever call him coward, or girl, again.
We walked quietly home, bringing the
body with its horrible horny scales. to
show to father and mother. ! shall
never forget how they clasped us in
their arms as they listened to the story,
| and how | wondered, as n child will. if
! every ybody, when they were grown up,
cried when they were very glad.
Nothing was ever said to the older
boys They had learned what true
bravery was, the scorn of self-protec-
| tion when another needed help, and
| they have been better for it ever since.
| Your father has never had the story
| told to you, thinking that sometime il
| might also teach You the lesson that
! true courage from its root word, the
Latin cor, and down through the
| French coeUr, is both below and above
any outward manifestations, and be-
longs to the heart
THE snake must have come out in
! TO the sun from his den under the rock,
| and was not as active as in warmer
weather, or the bite would have fol-
| lowed tire first alarm. There has
never since been seen another in this
locality"
We sat in silence for awhile, and
then grandfather spoke, laying his
hand on Harry's curls: 81 seem to see
my boy Henry again in his son, Harry.
hope he viii grow up into the same
brave, though tender, manhood of his
father, and remember, boys" ne said,
turning toward Francis and Carl.
that reclIlessness and desire to be
thought bold and daring are not an in
dex of true courage and often have no
connection with it If the walnut rod
teaches you this lesson, its story will
be of great value to YOU Z. Col
well, in American Agriculturist