What to Do, 



-AND- 



How to be Happy While Doing It. 



CHAPTER I. 



Whoso flndeth me flndeth life— Pkov. 8: 35. 



Dear Fj;iemds, I am very well aware of 

 the magnitude of the task before me; name- 

 ly, to tell every one who is out of employ- 

 ment, what to do. But even this would not 

 be so difficult if it were not for the latter 

 part of the caption to my book. I might 

 possibly tell e\ery one of you who is want- 

 ing something to do, something that you 

 might do. For instance, I might tell ypu to 

 go and dig aditcli, and drain off tluit puddle 

 of Avater that has stood before your door. 

 Very likely you would agree with me, that 

 it ought to be done, and that it would prob- 

 ably pay in the long run to do it. Still, only a 

 few if any of you would be happy in such a 

 task. You woidd say, " I beg pardon, Mr. 

 Root ; but I have not got down to digging 

 ditches for a living just yet," and so you 

 would drop n)y bcok, and cut my acquaint- 

 ance. 



Well, when I propose not only to lind 

 something for you to do, but something you 

 will be happy in doing, I certainly have 

 undertaken a tremendous task. I suppose 

 you know we can sometimes get clilldren to 

 do disagreeable work, and enjoy it too, by 

 creating an interest in the work— sometimes 

 by indirect methods. When a boy, my task 

 was to saw and split the wood for the kitch- 

 en stove ; and, as with the average boy, my 

 good mother Avas almost always out of wood, 

 especially when baking - day came. The 

 work was so disagreeable to me, and I had 

 so little heart in it, that I always got just 

 enough for present needs. Sometimes, aft- 

 er she gave me a motherly reproof, I would 

 start out with great energy and big resolu- 

 tions ; but in a very little while I would say 

 to myself, " I declare, I must go and see to 

 my chickens. What I have, will last fifteen 

 minutes a,ny \yay, an;! I am sure I will come 



back before she can have time to want it." 

 Well, reader, how do you suppose it turned 

 out? No different from what it did almost 

 every day. The wood was all gone ; my 

 mother scraped up the chips, and tried 

 crowding great chunks into the stove-door, 

 to get along, while somebody went after 

 "that good-for-nothing boy.'" I was re- 

 minded of my remissness, perhaps, by hear- 

 ing some of my brothers or sisters shout 

 over the gate of my poultry-yard, '' Amos, 

 mother's clear out of wood again, and you 

 are to come this very minute and get her a 

 good lot of it.'' I had become so interested 

 in studying my chickens, that I entirely 

 forgot mother and the wood, and I fairly 

 jumped In my slioes when reminded in this 

 peremptory way. I went back, guilty and 

 ashamed, and almost afraid to look my good 

 mother in the eye ; but, bless your heart! 

 she knew how it was, and she did not look 

 cross, nor did she scold. She understood 

 her boy better than anybody else, and had 

 no lack of charity and love for him, even 

 though he didn't keep all his promises very 

 well. 



Well, shall I tell you what it was that all 

 of a sudden made me love to saw and split 

 wood, and even made me petition my father 

 to draw another load, that I might cut it up? 

 Yes, that something stayed by me until I 

 worked with such energy that the sweat 

 fairly ran down my boyish face ; and I so 

 loved to saw and split wood that I really 

 disliked to stop long enough to go and get 

 my dinner with father and mother and the 

 other six children. AVhat was it? Why, it 

 was a new-formed purpose; and that new- 

 formed purpose carqe to me one hot, sultry, 

 summer afternoon. It was simply this : 

 I got to tliinking thi^t J should like to buil^l 



