ivingstone, 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 as raising the squ