me I went into a spinning room. What a whirl of
little wheels and great wheels, of bobbins and spindles, of drums and
cylinders, there was in that room. My brain seemed to go round with
the wheels; and I could hardly help holding my head with both hands,
to keep it in its place. What a clatter was kept up by some of the
machinery. What a dull, droning, hum-drum sound there was, besides. I
could not hear the sound of my own voice, there was such a racket; and
such a dense fog settled upon my mind, on account of the noise, that I
could scarcely tell whether I was in the body or out of the body. Of
all the places in the world, that ever I had seen or heard of, or ever
expected to see or hear of, I firmly believed that the worst place for
a boy to live, day after day, was in the spinning room of a cotton
factory. I had heard of dismal dungeons, in which the light of day
never shone; and I had thought that they were bad enough. But this
factory seemed a great deal worse than any dungeon that was ever
invented. The factory would drive me crazy in a week. I was sure of
that. In the dungeon, on the other hand, which, though it might be as
dark as tar, was still and quiet, I fancied I could at least keep my
senses.

A factory is a busy place, too. It is one of the last situations in
the world where a lazy person would wish to be employed. You can't be
lazy there, if you try. A horse might as well undertake to be lazy in
a treadmill. Some people think that factory boys and factory girls
have to work _too_ hard; that they are confined too many hours a day,
and that they don't get fresh air enough. As to that, I shall not set
myself up for a judge. Very likely the children fare better in some
factories than they do in others. I will say, though, that the task of
a factory boy, were the factory ever so well managed, would not be so
pleasant to me as many others. I will say this; and I ought to say,
besides, that when a boy gets _used_ to the noise of a factory, he
does not mind it much. Though it almost deafens him at first, he
almost forgets there is any noise after a while.

Our young friend, the peddler's boy, made up his mind, the first day
he went to work in Mr. Mason's factory, that he _would_ like the
business, whether or no. Well, he did like it, after a week or
two--that is, he was content with it, and he was as cheerful and happy
in the factory as he had been out of it. Contentment, my dear young
friends, is a gem. It is