o believe any thing just
because he is told so. It is better for him to understand the reason of
things, and believe them on that account.

But to return to Ben Drake. To Nat's last remark he replied, endeavoring
to ridicule him for undertaking an enterprise on so small a scale,

"If I was going to work at all, I wouldn't putter over a few hills of
squashes, I can tell you. It is 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. L