"Well! I could do with another hand, it's true; and I must say I like the look of you. How long have you been a baker's man?" "When I've been with you seven days, it'll be just a week," was the humorous reply. "What, you've all to learn? That's a poor lookout." "A man that has all to learn, and has a will to it, will serve you better than one that has less to learn, and has no will to it." "Come, I can't gainsay that. What have you been, then?" "I have been watchman in a castle." "Oh, ho!--how long?" "Fifteen years." "And what gives you a mind to be a baker?" "Well, more notions than one. It's a clean trade, and of good repute; wholesome, for aught I know: there's no killing in it, for which I haven't a mind; and as folks must eat, it does not depend on fashion like some things. Moths don't get into bread and spoil it, nor rust neither; and if you can't sell it, you can eat it yourself, and you're no worse off, or not much. It dries and gets stale, of course, in time: but one can't have every thing; and seems to me there's as little risk in bread, and as little dirt or worry, as there is in any thing one can put one's hand to do. I'm not afraid of work, but I don't like dirt, loss, nor worry." The fat baker chuckled. "Good for you, my lad!--couldn't have put it better myself. Man was made to labour, and I like to see a man that's not afraid of work. Keep clear of worry by all means; it eats a man's heart out, which honest work never does. Work away, and sing at your work--that's my notion: and it's the way to get on and be happy." "I'm glad to hear it; I always do," said the applicant. "And mind you, lad,--I don't know an unhappier thing than discontent. When you want to measure your happiness, don't go and set your ell-wand against him that's got more than you have, but against him that's got less. Bread and content's a finer dinner any day than fat capon with grumble-sauce. We can't all be alike; some are up, and some down: but it isn't them at the top of the tree that's got the softest bed to lie on, nor them that sup on the richest pasties that most enjoy their supper. If a man wants to be comfortable, he must keep his heart clear of envy, and put a good will into his work. I believe a man may come to take pleasure in any thing, even the veriest drudgery, that brings a good heart to it and does his best to turn it out well." "I am sure of that," was the response, heartily given. The baker was pleased with the hearty response to the neat epigrammatic apothegms wherein he delighted to unfold himself. He nodded approval. "I'll take you on trial for a month," he said. "And if you've given yourself a true character, you'll stay longer. I'll pay you--No, we'll settle that question when I have seen how you work." "I'll stay as long as I can," was the answer, as the young man turned to leave the shop. "Tarry a whit! What's your name, and how old are you?"