than words can paint them. They are far apart in point of years; Daniel is twenty-two, Billy eleven. I was reminded of this fact the other day by Billy, as he stood between my legs, scowling at his book of sums.
“‘A boy has 86 turnips and gives his sister 80’—pretty present for a girl, isn't it?” said Billy with an air of supreme contempt. “Could you stand such stuff—say?”
I put on my instructive face and answered: “Well, my dear Billy, you know that arithmetic is necessary to you if you mean to be an industrious man and succeed in business. Suppose your parents were to lose all their property, what would become of them without a little son who could make money and keep accounts?”
“Oh!” said Billy with surprise. “Hasn’t father got enough stamps to see him through?”
“He has now, I hope; but people don’t always keep them. Suppose they should go by some accident when your father was too old to make any more stamps for himself?”
“You haven't thought of brother Daniel—”
True; for nobody ever had, in connection with the active employments of life.
“No, Billy,” I replied; “I forgot him; but then, you know, Daniel is more of a student than a business man, and—”
“Oh, Uncle Teddy! you don’t think I meant he’d support them? I meant I’d have to take care of father and mother and of all when they’d
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