Year: 1876

''No need of you heaving trade" said
my father. "Stick to your books like a
Briton, and who knows but what you may
yet do without any trade at ALL A life at
the bench is poor affair at the best; moth
ing but work day in and day out, and what
do you get for it in the end? A crust of
bread, few rags on your back, and a mar
row box to wind up with
My fathers words disconnected me.
Was this true of a life at the bench? Was
this all workingman's life? Did neither
independence nor the glory of excelling,
offer any reward to the poor human ma
chine?


Although l was nearly eighteen, 1 am
afraid that the tears stood in my eyes, as I
replied with an effort at being respectful:
''The trade will do me no harm, father,
even should uucle John see fit to leave me
anything when he dies.''
'Ieave you anything r' cried my mother,
Indignantly. "Didn't he tell me years ago
that his will was made, and that he had left
you all he possessed ?"


| Much more in the same strain said my
| father and mother; but l was not con-
vinced.


| / burned to learn trade.
A peep into a foundry seemed to me like
glance into fairy land, and the notes of a
young musicians first composition were
never sweeter to him than was the din of a
| boiler shop to me.


Looking back now in my old age, can
see the reason for my great warmth, al
though failed to see it then. AS usual,
there was girl in the case.


Katie Hall-dear little Katie, my school
mate, with the cherry lips and sweet, mod
est eyes-had a father who owned a boiler
shop and large foundry, which latter daily
seemed to send forth roar of contempt
against every young man who did not learn
a trade. The foundry, in all probability,
accomplished other work, but to my fevered
imagination this was it's chief occupation.


My parents were English, who had emf
granted ''to the land of the free and the
home of the brave' when | was but three
years old; consequently my education had
been thoroughly American, and although
my rich uncle had promised to make me his
heir, did not care to waste my youth in
"waiting for dead mems Shoes" which in
nine cases out of ten are never worth the
wearing.


Fortunately for my purpose, l was an
only child, and determined never to give
my parents moments rest till had ac.
complished my purpose. They are dead
and gone now, and say it with bitter re
gret, that was not as filial as might have
been.


ooh, go to the foundry if you must y
cried my father in a rage, "and may yor
get your fill Of it before three months are
} over. I'll put you under that old Tartar
old Hall, and if you don't come whimpering
back to us in a week, my name isn't Jo'
Bartlett"


I could hardly contain my joy.
To be put under her father without al
effort Why it was the very thing hat
been running my head against for the las
year.


Fearful of delay, caused my father t.
wait upon MI. Hall at once. The prelim


inaries were arranged without trouble, ant


entered that gentleman's shop, as an ap


prentice to boiler making before the weel


was out.


t My father was only a cabinet maker, re


member, yet my mothers pride was s.
: deeply wounded at the bare thought Of he


son coming home with black face am
soiled clothes, that she wept bitterly.


But spite of all Encouragement, did no
go whimpering back to them in yeal


much less week, SO suspicion arose il
n my mind that my fathers name could no


possibly be Joe Bartlett, although ever
one called him so All was not sunshin