There was no end to the good diligent boys and girls of whom the readers told; they were on every page we turned, and every one of them received his or her reward and received it right away in cash. There never was the slightest excuse or need for us to be anything but diligent and kind,—and still our young hearts were so perverse and hard that we let the lessons pass unheeded, and clutched at the smallest piece of pie or cake, or the slightest opportunity to deceive some good kind teacher, although we must have known that we missed a golden chance to become President of the United States and have money in the bank besides. One story of a contented boy stands out so clearly in my mind that I could not refrain from hunting up the old schoolbook and reading it once more. It must have made a wonderful impression on my mind, for there it is, “The Contented Boy.” I cannot recall that I ever was contented in my life, and I am sure that I have never seen a boy like this one in the reader; but it is not possible that I knew my schoolbooks were clumsy, stupid lies. After all this time there is the story, clear and distinct; and this is the way it runs: THE CONTENTED BOY. Mr. Lenox was riding by himself. He got off from his horse to look at something on the roadside. The horse broke away from him and ran off. Mr. Lenox ran after him, but could not catch him. A little boy at work in a field, near the road, heard the horse. As soon as he saw him running from his master, the boy ran very quickly to the middle of the road, and catching the horse by the bridle, stopped him till Mr. Lenox came up. MR. LENOX. Thank you, my good boy. What shall I give you for your trouble? BOY. I want nothing, sir. MR. L. You want nothing? Few men can say as much. But what were you doing in the field? BOY. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep that were feeding on turnips. MR. L. Do you like to work? BOY. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather. MR. L. But would you not rather play? BOY. This is not hard work. It is almost as good as play. MR. L. Who set you to work? BOY. My father, sir. MR. L. What is your name? BOY. Peter Hurdle, sir. MR. L. How old are you? BOY. Eight years old next June. MR. L. How long have you been here? BOY. Ever since six o’clock this morning. MR. L. Are you not hungry? BOY. Yes, sir, but I shall go to dinner soon. MR. L. If you had a dime now, what would you do with it? BOY. I don’t know, sir. I never had so much. MR. L. Have you no playthings? BOY. Playthings? What are they? MR. L. Such things as ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses. BOY. No, sir. Tom and I play at football in winter, and I have a jumping-rope. I had a hoop, but it is broken. MR. L. Do you want nothing else? BOY. I have hardly time to play with what I have. MR. L. You could get apples and cakes if you had money, you know.