A BOY’S BATTLE Up on the mountain-side Tommy was indeed fighting the battle of his life. He had made his way mechanically to the top of the of rock from which the spring , and had flung himself down upon the grass which it. He could see far down the valley, until at last, away in the distance, the purple mountains closed in and cut it off. The trees, which clothed them from foot to brow, had been touched by the first November frosts, and their fused, as if by magic, from sober green to golden yellow and orange and flaming red.
 
He looked down upon it all, but not upon its beauty. For its beauty formed no part of the lives of the people who worked out their destinies here. The ugly places along the river were typical of their lives. For them it was only to dive deep into the earth and drag forth the black treasure that had been entombed there, to send it forth to warm and light the world and to move the wheels of industry—to do this at the sacrifice of health and strength and happiness, and, worse than all, of intellect. Brains grow and shrunken where only the muscles are used; for brain, no less than muscle, demands exercise, else it grows weak and flabby. A picture danced before his eyes of a group of stately buildings overlooking a wide and level campus, where men worked, not with their hands, but with their brains, with all the intellectual wealth of the world before them.
 
Let it not be inferred that there is aught in this to the dignity and merit of manual . No man of real ever thought to do that. It is only when that toil makes the man a machine, when it shuts out light from the mind, that it is detestable and a menace to human happiness.
 
Of all that the broader life meant, Tommy had just begun to understand the meaning. He had taken his first of the sweets of study and of intellectual fellowship, and the taste would linger in his mouth forever, making all others stale and by comparison. Must he decide to turn away from the source of that ? Was there no other way?
 
And then, of a sudden, a thought came to him which stung him upright. He owed Jabez Smith three hundred dollars. He must not only provide for father and mother: he must also repay that money. He dropped back again upon the turf with tight-closed lips. What a tremendous sum it seemed! But other boys had done as much, and suddenly remembering his book, he drew it from his pocket and turned over the pages. It was under the name of Horace Greeley he found what he was seeking:
 
“He could go to school no longer, and must now support himself. From earliest childhood he had to be a printer; so, when eleven years of age, he walked nine miles to see the publisher of a newspaper and obtain a situation. The editor looked at the small, tow-headed boy, shook his head, and said, ‘You are too young.’ With a heavy heart, the child walked the long nine miles back again. But he must do something; and, a little later, with seventy-five cents in his pocket, and some food tied in a bundle, which he on the end of a stick over his shoulder, he walked one hundred and twenty miles back to New Hampshire, to see his relatives. After some weeks he returned, with a few more cents in his purse than when he started.”
 
At last he succeeded in getting to a printer, and was laughed at for wearing threadbare clothes. “Ah, they did not know that every penny was saved and sent to the father, struggling to clear a farm in the of Pennsylvania. During his four years’ he visited his parents twice, though six hundred miles distant, and walked most of the way.” But he was soon thrown out of work again.
 
“After trying various towns, he found a situation in Erie, taking the place of a workman who was ill, and for seven months he did not lose a day. Out of his wages—eighty-four dollars—he had used only six—less than one dollar a month! Putting fifteen dollars in his pocket, he took the balance of sixty-three in a note, and gave it to his father.”
 
And this man had become one of the greatest editors the country had ever seen, had been nominated for President, had left an indelible mark upon the nation’s history. Tommy closed the book and replaced it in his pocket. The struggle was quite over, and he went calmly down to the house.
 
His mother looked at him with anxious eyes as he entered, but the calmness of his face seemed to her. The meal was on the table, and he sat down to it with a hunger born of his long fasting.
 
“Where’s Johnny?” he asked suddenly, seeing that his younger brother’s place at table remained vacant.
 
“Mis’ Jones took him,” answered his mother. “I didn’t want anybody t’ tend to but your pa after th’ accident. Mis’ Jones said she’d look out fer him fer a few days.”
 
“How is father?”
 
“Still asleep. A long sleep’ll do him good, th’ doctor says. But nothin’ can’t make his leg grow out ag’in.”
 
“No,” said Tommy, “nothing can do that.”
 
His mother went on with the meal in silence.
 
“I s’pose you hed a nice time out East?” she asked at last.
 
“Yes, a nice time. There were a lot of nice fellows there.”
 
“An’ could y’ keep up with them?”
 
“Yes; I managed to keep up. It was a little hard at first, but it grew easier after a while.”
 
There was a proud light in her eyes as she looked at him.
 
“Y’ mus’ go back,” she said, “soon ’s y’ . Y’ mustn’t fall behind. We’ll git along here some way.”
 
“We’ll see,” he answered simply. “I can’t go back till father’s out of danger. There’s no hurry. A whole year wouldn’t matter much.”
 
There was a tone in his voice which brought his mother’s eyes to his face, and a look in his face that held them there.
 
“You’re changed,” she . “Y’ seem older.”
 
“I am older,” said Tommy. “I feel years older—old enough, certainly, to do a little work.”
 
She sat looking at him, what would come next.
 
“Where are my old clothes?” he asked—“the clothes I used to work in?”
 
Then she understood.
 
“Not that!” she cried. “Oh, not that!” and would have come to him, but he waved her back, and she sank again into her chair. For an instant he felt immeasurably older than his mother.
 
“There’s no use trying to get around it,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I’ve got to go to work, and till something better shows up I’ve got to take father’s place in the mine. I can do the work, and I’m going to begin right away. Where are my clothes?”
 
She rose as one dazed, went to a closet, and drew out the grimy garments. He as he looked at them. His mother saw the movement of disgust, and understood it.
 
“It sha’n’t be!” she cried, and flung the garments back into the closet and shut the door.
 
But Tommy had already conquered the moment’s feeling.
 
“Come, mother,” he said, “we’re making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Why shouldn’t I go back to the mine? It’s only for a little while, till I can find something else. I’m sure I can soon find something else. Give me the clothes.”
 
She made no movement, and he opened the door and took them out himself.
 
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and went into the other room.
 
His came back upon him as he slowly donned the dirty garments. For three months he had been clean, and he had reveled in the luxury of cleanliness. But that was all over now. The coal-dust would conquer him as it had done before. But he shook the thought from him, and was quite himself when he came out again into the kitchen where his mother was. She was sitting on a chair, her lips quivering, her eyes with tears.
 
“Come here, Tommy,” she said. “Come an’ kiss me. You’re a good boy, Tommy.”
 
He went to her, and she put her arms convulsively about his neck. He stooped and kissed the trembling lips, then gent............