WORKING IS BETTER THAN WISHING.
NOW then, Tom, lad, what’s up? in trouble again?” asked a good-natured sailor of his messmate, one snowy day on the wide Atlantic.
The boy was leaning moodily against the bulwarks of the vessel—a pleasant, ruddy young fellow of fourteen, but with a cloud on his face which looked very like discontent.
Snow was falling heavily, but he did not heed it; he looked up, however, at the approach of his friend, and answered,—
“I’m all right, Pearson; it isn’t that. I was only wishing and wondering why I can’t get what I want; it seems a shame, it does!” and Tom paused abruptly, half choked by a sob.
“What is it, Tom?” asked Pearson; “have the other lads been plaguing? Such a big, hearty fellow as you ought not to fret for that.”
“I don’t,” said Tom, sharply; “it’s not that; but they’ve found out that my little brother is in the workhouse at home, and they throw it at me. I’d do anything to get him out, too, for he oughtn’t to be there: we come of a better sort, Pearson,” he said, proudly; “but father and mother dying of that fever put us all wrong. Uncle got me to sea, and then, I suppose, he thought he’d done enough; so there was only the workhouse left for Willy. He’s the jolliest little chap, Pearson, you ever saw, and I’d work day and night to get him out, if I could; but where’s the use? A poor boy like me can do nothing; so I just get in a rage, or don’t care about anything, and fight the other lads; or I’m had up for neglect of duty, or something.”