s way of building a neighbor's barn,
when any help was needed for that purpose.

CHAP. X.

ANOTHER BLOCK OF MARBLE.

This story about the building of the deacon's barn brings to my mind
another, pretty closely related to it. Will you hear that, too?

One morning, as Uncle Mike was walking out, he saw a boy sitting down
on the door steps of one of his neighbors. Upon a closer inspection of
the lad it appeared that he was a poor boy, without any parents,
who was wandering about, doing odd jobs, here and there, and getting
what people had a mind to pay him for his services.

[Illustration: MIKE MARBLE AND THE BEGGAR.]

He was not a common vagrant, exactly, and yet he came very near being
one. It was not supposed that he was a vicious boy; still it could not
be denied that the life he led was tolerably well calculated to make
him vicious, and most of the neighbors were afraid to have him about
their houses, without keeping a sharp look out on his movements.

Mr. Marble had heard of the lad, though it so happened that he had
never met him until this time.

"Hallo, there, my boy!" said Uncle Mike, "what are you so busy about?"

"Eating a cold johnny-cake, sir," was the laconic answer.

"And how do you like it?"

"Pretty well, though I guess a little butter wouldn't hurt it."

"Look here, my lad," said Uncle Mike, "what do you do generally for a
living?"

"A little of every thing."

"Are you willing to work?"

"Yes, sir, if I can get any thing for it."

"Will you work for me?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it."

"I am a hard-working man. Will you work like a dog, if I'll let you
try?"

"Please, sir, I'd rather work like a boy."

"Good. You shall go home with me."

And he took the boy home with him. The first thing he set him about
was weeding the onion bed. It was hard work, as I know from
experience. Oh, how it makes a poor fellow's back ache, to stoop down
and weed onions for half a day. You must know that you can't use the
hoe more than about a quarter of the time. If you could, the work
would be comparatively easy and pleasant. But you can't do that. You
must bend right down to the task, as if you really loved the onions,
and were nursing them, as a fond mother nurses a pet child.

"Well, Fred," said the old gentleman, when the dinner horn blew its
blast of invitation for the workmen to come in and pay their respects
to Mrs. Marble's boiled pork and cabbage, "well, Fred, how do you like