III.—PETTINGILL.
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 no 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 novellist does
should excite astonishment in any wellregulated
mind.
