Bobby was none of this sort.  We lament that he had a habit of talking big—­that is, of talking about business affairs in a style a little beyond his years.  But he was modest to a fault, paradoxical as it may seem.  He was always blushing when any body spoke a pretty thing about him.  Probably the circumstances of his position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed at all times to the wants of his mother.  He had thought a great deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold books to the little black house.

Some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have a genius for trade.  They think of little else.  They “play shop” before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their teens.  They are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word.

We saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted quince—­boys have a taste for raw quinces, strange as it may seem.  Undoubtedly he had no talent for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler.  Our hero was shrewd.  He always got the best end of the bargain; though, I am happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows.

We have made this digression so that my young readers may know why Bobby was so much given to big talk.  The desire to do something worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great things.  It was not a bad fault, after all.  Boys need not necessarily be frivolous.  Play is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its place, and is as much a part of the boy’s education as his grammar and arithmetic.  It not only develops his muscles, but enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy for the active duties of life.

It need not be supposed, because Bobby had to turn his attention to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not or did not play.  At a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game.

When the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and put away, Bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book.  It was a beautiful article, and Mrs. Bright was duly astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship.  Very likely her first impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless extravagance; but this matter was set right by Bobby’s informing her how it came into his possession.

“Here is my ledger, mother,” he said, handing her the book.