“That won’t do, Roswell.  Work is strictly forbidden.”

“But this is for myself.”

“No matter.  It is not play.  You had better go to the village and play.”

Roswell got up angrily, put away the machine and went out.  In an hour he came back, saying he had had a quarrel with Perry Gantley, and had a headache.  So he went to bed.

The next morning he rigged up a swing in the woods back of the house, and amused himself for an hour, and then went fishing, but, as he had no luck, he hardly spoke a word at dinner-time.

During the afternoon he read for a few minutes, and then took a walk through the woods, returning so tired that he was glad to go to bed right after supper.

Thursday was simply dreadful.  It rained all day, and Roswell read until his eyes ached.  Then he tried to sleep, romped with Rollo awhile, and at last went to the barn.

Mrs. Hofford followed him presently, and found him currying Prince.

“Come, Roswell, this won’t do,” she said, quickly.  “No work.”

Roswell threw down the currycomb with an impatient exclamation, and returned to the house.

He did not make his appearance at all at supper, and Jennie reported that he was lying in bed, asleep.  She supposed Mr. Hofford smiled, but made no remark.

Friday morning Roswell came down very early and Mr. Hofford met him coming in with an armful of wood.

“Here!  What does this mean?” he asked, sternly.

“I’m going back to work,” replied Roswell, flushing up, but laughing at the same time.

“It is not possible you are tired of play?”

“No, not tired; but—­”

“But you think it is more fun when sandwiched between work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am glad you have made the discovery for yourself,” said Mr. Hofford, with a smile.  “Fun or play is never thoroughly enjoyable unless we have earned the right to it by hard work.  A perfectly idle boy or man is never happy, and no person knows the absolute pleasure in work until they are deprived of it, It is a good lesson to learn, my son, and I am glad you have learned it so early.”

NEW YEAR’S DAY.

  The aged and the young, man, woman, child,
  Unite in social glee; even stranger dogs,
  Meeting with bristling back, soon lay aside
  Their snarling aspect, and in sportive chase,
  Excursive scour, or wallow in the snow. 
  With sober cheerfulness, the grandam eyes
  Her offspring ’round her, all in health and peace;
  And thankful that she’s spared to see this day
  Return once more, breathes low a secret prayer,
  That God would shed a blessing on their heads.

—­James Grahame.

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