We had written to Uncle Nathan, informing him of the day on which he
might expect my arrival; and at the time appointed he drove over to
Fulton, the small village two miles from his farm, where was the
railway-station. As I stepped from the car I eagerly scanned each face
among the crowd to see if I could find any one whose appearance answered
to my ideas of Uncle Nathan, but for some time I could see no one whom I
could suppose to be my unknown relative. I at length spied a middle-aged
gentleman walking backward and forward in a leisurely manner, upon the
platform, whom I thought might possibly be my uncle, and, as the crowd
had mostly dispersed, I mustered up courage, and in a low voice accosted
him with the question. "Please Sir are you my uncle Nathan?" "Your uncle
who?" said the old man, as he elevated his eyebrows and regarded me with
a broad stare of astonishment. "No I'm not your Uncle, nor nobody's else
that I know of," said he, in a sharp crusty voice, then, giving a second
look at my downcast face, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and
said in a much softer tone: "If its Nathan Adams you mean he's just
driven round to the other door. Be you a friend of his'n." "Yes Sir,"
answered I, as I hurried away to the "other door" pointed out by the
stranger. From the ideas I had formed of my uncle I was unprepared to
meet the kind, hearty looking man whose sunburned face beamed with a
smile of welcome, when his eye rested upon me, as I walked with a
timid, hesitating manner toward him. He at once held out his hand,
saying, "I don't need to ask if you are my nephew Walter, for if I'd
a met you most anywhere I should have known you were Ellen Adams' son;
just the same dark eyes and happy smile which made your mother such a
beauty at your age, for your mother was handsome if she was my sister;
but I suppose, like all the rest of us she's beginnin' to grow old and
careworn by this time, 'tis the way of the world, you know, boy, we
can't always keep young, do our best. Its amazin' how time does fly, it
only seems like yesterday since your mother trudged to school over this
very road, with her books and dinner-basket on her arm; and now here's
you, her son, a great stout boy that will soon be as tall as your old
Uncle Nathan. It really does beat all; but I forget that, while I am
moralizin' like on the flight of time, you must be famishin' with
hunger, to say nothin' of your bein' tired most to death with your long
rid