“Well, be careful not to overwork. Two hours a day is as much as you ought to work at planing; three hours at most.”

“I shall work six hours to-morrow, certainly,” replied James. “I should laugh to see myself work two hours, and then cry ‘baby,’ and come home; and I guess Mr. Treat would laugh, too.”

“I think Mr. Treat will agree with me exactly, that boys must not overwork; and you are so ambitious, James, that you will overwork before you know it, unless somebody warns you.” Mrs. Garfield expressed just the opinion that every thoughtful parent would express. James had more energy and ambition than he had discretion, so that he was blind to the value of his mother’s counsel.

“If you see me coming home to-morrow in two hours, or three, you may know that I’ve lost an arm or finished the job,” remarked James, very suggestively. And here the conversation closed.

James went to his job the next day with more determination than ever, much as he had shown of this admirable quality before. If his mother looked into his eye, or observed his compressed lips, as he went out of the door, she must have been satisfied that three hours’ planing would not satisfy his ambitious desires on that day. Mr. Treat gave him cordial words of welcome, in his jovial way, assuring him that the “Early bird catches the worm,” at the same time handing him a jack-plane. James stripped off his jacket and vest, leaving only his shirt and jean trousers to encumber him. He was barefooted, of course, as the luxury of shoes could not be afforded, except in the winter. He was scarcely tall enough to work handily at the bench, but he seemed to straighten himself up one or two inches taller than usual for the occasion. He went to work like a man. Every board was twelve feet long; and by the time he had planed ten of them his mind was fully made up to what nobody knew except himself. They found out, however, at night. All through the day the plane was shoved rapidly, and great beads of sweat stood upon the boy’s brow, but no tired look invested his countenance for a moment. Before the sun went down he exclaimed, laying aside the plane:

“One hundred boards, Mr. Treat, done! count them, and see.”

“Not a hundred, my boy; you don’t mean that, do you?”

“Count them, and see; a hundred boards according to my count.”

“A great day’s work, if that is the case,” said Mr. Treat, as he proceeded to count the boards.

“One hundred it is, surely,” remarked Mr. Treat, completing the count. “Too much for a boy of your age and size to do in one day. I wouldn’t advise you to do more than half that another day.”

“I’m not much tired,” said James.

“That is not the thing, my boy; thirty years from now you may feel tired from this day’s labour more than you do now.”

“If it takes as long as that to get tired, then the tired part is far off,” responded James, not appreciating the wise remark of his employer.

“Well, now comes the best part of your day’s work, the pay,” remarked Mr. Treat. “Let us see, one hundred boards takes one hundred cents to pay for them—that is just one dollar! A great day’s work for a boy- carpenter! Now you count, and I’ll count.” And he proceeded to count out one hundred cents, making quite a little pile of coin when the dollar, all in cents, was ready for James’s pocket.

Reader. We might as well stop here as to proceed further with the history of that day’s labour. It would be quite impossible to describe James’s feelings to you, as he pocketed the one hundred cents and started for home. That old jacket never covered just such a breast as it did then. If we could only turn that bosom inside out, and have a full view of the boy’s heart, we should learn what no writer can ever