Reuben Pettingill was extremely industrious. He worked hard all the year round on his father's little farm. Right he was! Industry is a very fine thing. It is one of the finest things of which we have any knowledge. Yet do not frown, "do not weep for me," when I state that I don't like it. It doesn't agree with me. I prefer indolence. I am happiest when I am idle. I could live for months without performing any kind of labour, and at the expiration of that time I should feel fresh and vigorous enough to go right on in the same way for numerous more months. This should not surprise you. Nothing that a modern novelist does should excite astonishment in any well-regulated mind. IV.--INDEPENDENCE DAY. The 4th of July is always celebrated in America with guns, and processions, and banners, and all those things. You know why we celebrate this day. The American Revolution, in 1775, was perhaps one of the finest revolutions that was ever seen. But I have not time to give you a full history of the American Revolution. It would consume years to do it, and I might weary you. One 4th of July Reuben Pettingill went to Boston. He saw great sights. He saw the dense throng of people, the gay volunteers, the banners, and, above all, he saw the fireworks. I despise myself for using so low a word, but the fireworks "licked" him. A new world was opened to this young man. He returned to his parents and the little farm among the hills, with his heart full of fireworks. He said, "I will make some myself." He said this while eating a lobster on top of the coach. He was an extraordinary skilful young man in the use of a common clasp-knife. With that simple weapon he could make, from soft wood, horses, dogs, cats, etc. He carved excellent soldiers also. I remember his masterpiece. It was "Napoleon crossing the Alps." Looking at it critically, I should say it was rather short of Alps. An Alp or two more would have improved it; but, as a whole, it was a wonderful piece of work; and what a wonderful piece of work is a wooden man, when his legs and arms are all right. V.--WHAT THIS YOUNG MAN SAID. He said, "I can make just as good fireworks as them in Boston." "Them" was not grammatical, but why care for grammar as long as we are good? VI.--THE FATHER'S TEARS. Pettingill neglected the farm. He said that it might till itself--he should manufacture some gorgeous fireworks, and exhibit them on the village green on the next 4th of July. He said the Eagle of Fame would flap his wings over their humble roof ere many months should pass away. "If he does," said old Mr. Pettingill, "we must shoot him and bile him, and eat him, because we shall be rather short of meat, my son, if you go on in this lazy way." And the old man wept. He shed over 120 gallons of tears. That is to say, a puncheon. But by all means let us avoid turning this romance into a farce.