In fact, Rollo was very glad to escape safely out of the doctor's office; and he was, if possible, still more rejoiced that he had so light and easy a prescription. He had thought that, perhaps, the doctor would put something on his eyes, and bandage them up, so that he could not see at all; or else give him some black and bitter medicines to take every night and morning. Instead of that, he said to himself, as he came out at the door, "I have only got to keep from studying, and that will be capital. I can play all the time. True, I can't read any story books; but, then, I am willing to give the story books up, if I don't have to study." Rollo had usually been obliged to read, or study, or write a little, even in vacations; for his mother said that boys could not be happy to play all the time. Rollo, however, thought that she was mistaken in this. It is true that she had sometimes allowed him to try the experiment for a day or two, and in such cases he had always, somehow or other, failed of having a pleasant time. But then he himself always attributed the failure to some particular difficulty or source of trouble, which happened to come up then, but which would not be likely to occur again. In fact, in this opinion Rollo was partly correct. For it was true that each day, when he failed of enjoying himself, there was some peculiar reason for it, and exactly that reason would not be likely to exist another day. But then the difficulty with playing, or attempting to amuse one's self all the time, is, that it produces such a state of mind, that almost any thing becomes a source of uneasiness or dissatisfaction; and something or other is likely to occur, or there will be something or other wanting, which makes the time pass very heavily along. It is so with men as well as boys. Men sometimes are so situated that they have nothing to do but to try to amuse themselves. But these men are generally a very unhappy class. The poorest laborer, who toils all day at the hardest labor, is happier than they. So that the physician's prescription was, in reality, a far more disagreeable one than Rollo had imagined. When Rollo reached home, he told his mother that he was not to have any thing more to do with books for a month. "And you look as if you were glad of it," said she, with a smile. "Yes, mother, I am," said Rollo, "rather glad." "And what do you expect to do with yourself all that time?" said she. "O, I don't know," said Rollo. "Perhaps I shall help Jonas, a part of the time, about his work." "That will be a very good plan for a part of the time," said his mother; "though he is doing pretty hard work just now." "What is he doing?" "He is digging a little canal in the marsh, beyond the brook, to drain off the water." "O, I can dig," said Rollo, "and I mean to go now and help him."