With this intent I went into the hay-field with as much ardor as before into the school-room. Money, Mr. Stovill said, was desirable to go through college with, and I knew the worth of it.
“I see that you have not forgotten how to work,” said Mr. Wyman, coming into the meadow one sunny afternoon.
“Not forgetting, but still more accustomed to it, Mr. Wyman. I have been hard at it ever since I was here.”
“There is a difference between head work and hand work,” said the farmer with a quiet smile.
“I have been doing both,” I replied; “turning book leaves has not bleached my hands.”
“While I have to confess to the doing of only one. The young folks of this day have much better advantages than were common when I was a boy. We had no such schools then as Rockdale.”
“I think you do yourself injustice, Mr. Wyman, when you say that you have only been working with your hands. Had it not been for you, I could not have gone to Rockdale when I did, if ever. In word and deed, your labor has budded, blossomed, and brought forth fruit. We sometimes study quite as effectually out of books as in them.”
“True; but if I could live my life over again, I should think more of a book education. Those that know the most have the means of doing the most good.”
“There is one comforting truth,” said I, turning the hay vigorously: “God directs all our steps. He appoints our place; he gives us our work. I used to think there was in labor a great choice, and although I was willing to do any thing because I felt it to be right, still there was also a consciousness that, could I choose, such would not be my employment. I remember the morning I came here for the first time; I rebelled not a little against it. Still it was a means, a stepping-stone to the desired good.”
“And is it not the same now?”