the unexpected certainly happened to johnny blossom that day. he had just swung round on the road leading toward kingthorpe, with no thought of going the whole way, for uncle isaac was ill and had gone to a sanitarium, and there wasn’t the least bit of fun to be had just in kingthorpe itself with all its elegance. so early in the summer as this there were no ripe berries in the garden; and he must not go into the stables, for carlstrom the coachman was a regular crosspatch.

“be off with yourself, boy!” he would always say if johnny blossom but put his nose in at the stable door.

carlstrom was a swede, with a big black moustache whose ends stuck straight out in the air. he looked exactly like a stylish colonel to say the least—a very cross colonel though! no, there was no use going to the stable.

the cow-barn was under the rule of a swiss who was almost as cross as carlstrom. he always said that the cows ought to be sleeping; so johnny blossom got the idea that the cows at kingthorpe never did anything but lie and sleep.

inside the big fine house there couldn’t be any fun either. only those stately halls and magnificent rooms, one after another, with handsome furniture upholstered in silk damask, with great gold-framed mirrors, but with the shades always drawn down. the rooms were so immense that every footstep echoed in them. and oh! how careful one had to be for the sake of that miserable china that uncle isaac had collected so much of. in the cabinets it was no trouble, but when it stood on tiny little tables, johnny blossom did not like it at all. he scarcely dared to breathe when he went anywhere near the tables lest he should knock something off. uncle isaac had once shown him all the china and explained how old and rare and precious it was.

“this cup marie antoinette drank from, and this vase belonged to the bonapartes. this flagon is from an english royal palace of the sixteenth century.”

johnny blossom stood and stared. for his part he would rather have his own mug at home with “for a good boy” upon it than all these fine antiques that so many old mouths had drunk from!

poor uncle isaac! he was sick now again—worse, in fact. he had heart disease, mother said. jeremias the wood-cutter also talked of a pain in his heart, but since he had begun to rub himself all over with kerosene, he had become much better. it smelled dreadfully in jeremias’s little hut, but he was better. johnny blossom would certainly write to uncle isaac and tell him that all he had to do to cure himself of the pain was to rub himself with kerosene.

to this point in his meditations had johnny blossom come just as he reached the telephone pole whence he could see the big entrance gates to kingthorpe park; and there was the handsome new carriage rolling out through the gates that very moment! carlstrom sat on the box. my! how stylish he looked today! his moustache ends stood out in the air more stiffly than usual, and he never once glanced at johnny blossom standing below in the dusty road. back in the carriage sat miss melling, uncle isaac’s housekeeper, with a white feather in her hat waving up and down. at her side lay a queer package of many yellow sticks tied together. what in the world could that be?

johnny blossom took off his hat and bowed. carlstrom looked straight ahead; but when miss melling caught sight of johnny, there was a great to-do.

“why, there he is! stop, carlstrom, stop! johnny blossom! johnny blossom!” she called, twisting herself round in the carriage. “you are just the person i was going to town to see,” she continued. “i had a letter from your uncle isaac saying that you were to have this fishing rod at once.”

johnny blossom looked very small standing in the road beside the big carriage. the crown and brim of his hat gaped widely apart on one side, and out of the opening stuck a lock of dark brown hair. his blue and white striped blouse had a daub of pitch in the middle of the front; and since johnny blossom knew it was there, he held a little brown hand over it, while he gazed up at the double chin of the imposing miss melling.

“see here! why shouldn’t you take it right now? to tell the truth, i can’t imagine what a little boy like you should be doing with such a handsome fishing rod as this. i won’t say how much it cost—it was very expensive, you may be sure. well, perhaps you had better ride with us back to town again, although you are so dirty, you are scarcely fit for the carriage.”

johnny blossom looked up wistfully but dubiously. probably he was too dirty.

“oh, well! you may get in,” said miss melling, not ungraciously.

seldom, indeed, did he have the honor of riding in the kingthorpe carriage, because carlstrom and miss melling were both so fussy, and poor uncle isaac never went to drive. as they rode along miss melling showed johnny how to put the rod together. my, oh, my! how amazingly long it was! johnny stood it up like a flagstaff and his face was radiant.

“has uncle isaac trouble with his heart?” asked johnny, thinking he would tell about the kerosene cure.

“rich people have trouble everywhere,” said miss melling curtly. “sit still or you’ll fall out of the carriage.”

johnny blossom sat as still as a stone for about two minutes; but then they drove past a great linden tree and he absolutely had to stand up to see how near the top of the tree he could reach with his fishpole.

“dear, dear!” said miss melling. “i think you had better get out before we have an accident.”

the carriage was stopped and johnny blossom with his long fishing rod was helped out unceremoniously.

“thank you for the drive and for the rod,” said he, bowing.

then johnny blossom sprang into a run and dashed homeward. my, oh, my! how astonished the family would be over such a magnificent fishing rod!

the moment he arrived, the whole household was called on to admire it—father, mother, three sisters, and the maids—but no one must touch it or even go very near it but himself. dagny put one little wet finger out toward it, but at this johnny blossom became red with fury.

“are you crazy? you’ll ruin it completely!” he shouted. the little wet finger was drawn hastily back.

where the precious rod should be put was a momentous question. unfortunately it was too long to be accommodated in his own room, where he could guard it best.

johnny blossom’s room was a very tiny one, under the slope of the roof, but small as it was, he could never keep it in order. the rug before the bed was always in a heap; and papers, skates, bows and arrows, and boots and shoes were strewn over the floor. there was a little space on the table and the commode, but on the floor you could scarcely find a bare spot.

“how this room does look!” mother was continually saying.

“well, that is because i study here,” said johnny blossom.

strangely enough, mother could not understand what studying had to do with everything being scattered over the floor; but at any rate, to make space for the fishing rod in the little room was plainly impossible. of course he could not think of taking the rod apart. well, it would have to be left on the veranda tonight. what if some one should take it? haunted by this dreadful thought, johnny blossom was very wakeful. he tossed and turned for a long time before he finally fell asleep.

the next morning johnny awoke early and was wide awake at once. that fishing rod from uncle isaac—out on the veranda—suppose some one had taken it! he put on his clothes in the greatest haste. later he would wash himself and dress properly, but the only thing now was to see whether the fishing rod was safe. yes, wonderfully enough, there it was. no one had touched it, so far as he could see.

how still, how still the world was! how fresh and cool! the sun was shining now on the big pine trees back of the house and their trunks were deep red in the strong light. what a fragrance came from the garden—the rich scent of roses, particularly—and how very damp the garden path was! my, oh, my! the dew was certainly like pearls, scattered over the grass—shining white pearls. johnny blossom looked at the clock on the church tower. two minutes before five. pshaw! so early! oh, well! never mind. it was all right. he could do what he liked until the rest of the family got up.

first, he would try fishing far out over the flower beds with his rod. there! he had caught and broken off a big, dark red rose. the well was naturally a better place to fish. johnny blossom fished up the most incredible things from that well. he first threw them in, of course, and then it was a tremendous piece of work to get them out again—leaves, flowers, his own straw hat—yes, it was certainly an extra fine fishing rod. he would write at once to uncle isaac and thank him for it.

how pleasant that no one was up yet, and that he could settle himself cosily at mother’s writing desk! uncle isaac had been his godfather at baptism, so johnny blossom wrote:

“dear godfather: a thousand thanks for the fishing rod. i am so happy. it catches everything splendidly. this afternoon i am going to fish in the bay. if you have a pain in your heart, just rub yourself with kerosene, jeremias the wood-cutter says. he smells like a lamp, but he is well now and walks out with a stick. it’s nothing if you do smell if you can only be well.”

johnny blossom could think of nothing more to write about, though he stared long and hard at the walls. his examination report? no, he would not write about that, for there were some 9’s for conduct and some marks for lessons that were not as high as one might wish. no, there was not an atom more to write. so the letter was signed:

“your affectionate johnny blossom.”

after his writing, he went to the wharf and fished for a while. as it happened he caught nothing, but it was fun enough just to put out the rod and draw it in again.

suddenly the maid lisa appeared.

“you are to hurry right home, john.”

father and mother sat in the study, mother with her handkerchief in her hand and with red eyes.

“we have something to tell you, my boy,” said father. “uncle isaac has been very sick.”

“yes, but i have just written to him that if he will rub himself with kerosene he will get well.”

“uncle isaac has no further need of anything,” said mother. “he died last night, little john.”

mother began to cry again, and there came a lump in johnny blossom’s throat. no, he would not cry. big boys ought never to cry.

“if any one goes straight into the kingdom of god, uncle isaac will,” said mother.

it was of no use; he must cry. with his head in his mother’s lap he cried hard. mother stroked his head gently. “uncle isaac wished it so much himself, my boy. he was eager to go to god,” she whispered.

“yes, but it is so sad.”

that afternoon johnny blossom sat crouched on the stone steps leading to the road. the fishing rod lay beside him, but he did not feel like going fishing. he sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, thinking of uncle isaac. it might easily be that just now, this minute, uncle isaac stood outside that great golden gate—the gate that leads into paradise—and knocked on it. to think that god can hear a man’s little knock. why, that gate is surely as big as—yes, as the tallest pine tree over there, and all of gleaming gold; and god looks and throws the gate wide open of course, for he sees it is uncle isaac. and so uncle isaac goes into the kingdom of heaven.

if there had only been a chance to thank him for the fishing rod! johnny blossom had some thought of asking god to thank uncle isaac for him, but he put it hastily aside. no, he was sure that would not do.

kingthorpe. oh! he should like less than ever to go there now. never, never in the world would he enter that grand place again! miss melling and carlstrom might have it all to themselves, for anything he cared.