I KNOW of two little boys, twin-brothers, who are just five years old.
They are so nearly alike that their best friends can scarcely tell them
apart. Sturdy little men they are; so strong and fair and stout, that I
should be glad to kiss them even when they have come from the dirtiest
depths of their mud-pies. I fancy their mother sighs often over their
torn pantaloons, their battered hats, and their soiled boots; but for
all that, they _must_ play, and things will wear out.
One day in the fall, their papa sent up to the house a farmer's wagon
full of great beautiful squashes, to be put into the cellar for the
winter's use. The farmer put the squashes on the ground close by the
cellar-door ready for storage. But, when their papa came home, the
squashes had disappeared, and he inquired who had put them into the
cellar, and went down to see if they had been properly stored.
But there were no squashes there. And he inquired again where they were;
but no one knew. He called to the boys, who were playing horse on the
sidewalk, to ask if they knew any thing of the squashes. Oh, yes! and
they ran to the barn, he following; and where do you suppose the
squashes were? In the pig-pen--every one of them!
They had toiled and tugged, and carried every squash--and many of them
were large--out there, and fed them to the pigs.
The mischief done, who could scold those two bright, hard-working little
men? I think their papa had to console himself with thinking if only
they would work as well at something useful when they were grown up, he
could forgive their rather wasteful business when they were little.