Triumphantly the toiler roared, “I get three bones a day and board!
That’s going some, eh, what?” And on he labored, brave and strong; the
work was hard, the hours were long, the day was passing hot. I sat at
ease beneath a tree—that sort of thing appeals to me—and watched him as
he toiled; the sweat rolled down him in a stream, and I could see his
garments steam, his face and hands were broiled. He chuckled as he
toiled away, “They’re paying me three bones a day, with board and
washing, too!” That was his dream of easy mon—to stew and simmer in the
sun, for that, the long day through! And I, who earn three iron men with
sundry scratches of a pen, felt sorry for the jay; but, as I watched his
stalwart form, the pity that was growing warm within me, blew away. For
he was getting more than wealth—keen appetite and rugged health, and
blessings such as those; and when the day of toil was through, no doubt
the stalwart worker knew a weary child’s repose!
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