The Bobbin Boy | Page 7

hurried away, "if you wish to be a bug-killer this summer, you may for all me, I shan't."
Ben belonged to a class of boys who think it is beneath their dignity to do some necessary and useful work. To carry bundles, work in a factory, be nothing but a farmer's boy, or draw a hand-cart, is a compromise of dignity, they think. Nat belonged to another class, who despise all such ridiculous notions. He was willing to do any thing that was necessary, though some people might think it was degrading. He did not feel above useful employment, on the farm, or in the workshop and factory. And this quality was a great help to him. For it is cousin to that hopefulness which he possessed, and brother to his self-reliance and independence. No man ever accomplished much who was afraid of doing work beneath his dignity. Dr. Franklin was nothing but a soap-boiler when he commenced; Roger Sherman was only a cobbler, and kept a book by his side on the bench; Ben Jonson was a mason and worked at his trade, with a trowel in one hand and a book in the other; John Hunter, the celebrated physiologist, was once a carpenter, working at day labor; John Foster was a weaver in his early life, and so was Dr. Livingstone, the missionary traveller; an American President was a hewer of wood in his youth, and hence he replied to a person who asked him what was his coat of arms, "A pair of shirt sleeves;" Washington was a farmer's boy, not ashamed to dirty his hands in cultivating the soil; John Opie, the renowned English portrait painter, sawed wood for a living before he became professor of painting in the Royal Academy; and hundreds of other distinguished men commenced their career in business no more respectable; but not one of them felt that dignity was compromised by their humble vocation. They believed that honor crowned all the various branches of industry, however discreditable they might appear to some, and that disgrace would eventually attach to any one who did not act well his part in the most popular pursuit. Like them, Nat was never troubled with mortification on account of his poverty, or the humble work he was called upon to do. His sympathies were rather inclined in the other direction, and, other things being equal, the sons of the poor and humble were full as likely to share his attentions.
We are obliged to pass over much that belongs to the patch of squashes--the many hours of hard toil that it cost Nat to bring the plants to maturity,--the two-weeks' battle with the bugs when he showed himself a thorough Napoleon to conquer the enemy,--the spicy compliments he received for his industry and success in gardening,--the patient waiting for the rain-drops to fall in dry weather, and for the sun to shine forth in his glory when it was too wet,--the intimate acquaintance he cultivated with every squash, knowing just their number and size,--and many other things that show the boy.
The harvest day arrived,--the squashes were ripe,--and a fine parcel of them there was. Nat was satisfied with the fruit of his labor, as he gathered them for the market.
"What a pile of them!" exclaimed Frank, as he came over to see the squashes after school. "You are a capital gardener, Nat; I don't believe there is a finer lot of squashes in town."
"Father says the bugs and dry weather couldn't hold out against my perseverance," added Nat, laughing. "But the next thing is to sell them."
"Are you going to carry them to Boston?" asked Frank.
"No; I shall sell them in the village. Next Saturday afternoon I shall try my luck."
"You will turn peddler then?"
"Yes; but I don't think I shall like it so well as raising the squashes. There is real satisfaction in seeing them grow."
"If you can peddle as well as you can garden it, you will make a real good hand at it; and such handsome squashes as those ought to go off like hot cakes."
Saturday afternoon came, and Nat started with his little cart full of squashes. He was obliged to be his own horse, driver, and salesman, in which threefold capacity he served with considerable ability.
"Can I sell you some squashes to-day?" said Nat to the first neighbor on whom he called.
"Squashes! where did you find such fine squashes as those?" asked the neighbor, coming up to the cart, and viewing the contents.
"I raised them," said Nat; "and I have a good many more at home."
"What! did you plant and hoe them, and take the whole care of them?"
"Yes, sir; no one else struck a hoe into them, and I am to have all the money they bring."
"You deserve it, Nat, every cent