ould pity the man or boy who was not--who had no
bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "As a man
thinketh, so is he," the Psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of
inspiration which wrote it. What a man pictures as his ideal of that
which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will
endeavor to attain. Even if it be no higher aim than the possession of
wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. It fires his
brain, it nerves his arm. It stimulates him to action, and action is
the soul of progress. We must all work; and this world were cold and
dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. What Napoleon dreamed,
he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of Europe trembled before
him. What Howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was
beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through
eternity.

Bobby dreamed great things. That bright picture of the little black
house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and
surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before Mrs.
Bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the
painters were upon the spot.

"Now or never," replied Bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "This is
your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if I can
make it so."

Then he had to dream about his business in Boston and I am not sure but
that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like Mr. Bayard, living in an
elegant house in Chestnut Street, and having clerks and porters to do
as he bade them. A great many young men dream such things, and though
they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and
water are to the steam engine--they are the mainspring of action. Some
are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in
idleness, and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." It will
never come to them. They are more likely to die in the almshouse or
the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant
exertion is the price of success.

Bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few
days of respite from labor. He spent a liberal share of his time at
Squire Lee's where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's
house. Annie read Moore's Poems to him, till he began to have quite a
taste for poetry himself.

In connection with Tom Spicer's continued absence, which had to be
explained, B