The Bobbin Boy | Page 7

too small business. I'd do something or
nothing."
"What great thing would you do? asked Nat.
"I would go into a store, and sell goods to ladies and gentlemen, and
wear nice clothes."
"And be nothing but a waiter to everybody for awhile. Fred Jarvis is
only an errand-boy in Boston."
"I know that, but I wouldn't be a waiter for anybody, and do the
sweeping, making fires and carrying bundles; I don't believe in
'nigger's' work, though I think that is better than raising squashes."
"I don't think it is small business at all to do what Fred Jarvis is doing,
or to raise squashes," replied Nat. "I didn't speak of Fred because I
thought he was doing something beneath him. I think that 'niggers'
work is better than laziness;" and the last sentence was uttered in a way
that seemed rather personal to Ben.

"Well," said Ben, as he cut short the conversation and 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