merchandise upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to
attract notice. Here was Addison's Spectator, a long row of little
volumes; here was Pope's translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were
Dryden's poems, or those of Prior. Here, likewise, were Gulliver's
Travels, and a variely of little gilt-covered children's books, such as
Tom Thumb, Jack the Giant Queller, Mother Goose's Melodies, and others
which our great-grandparents used to read in their childhood. And here
were sermons for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and
ballads, some merry and some dismal ones, for the country people to
sing.

Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and
ballads, now to the rude yeomen who perhaps could not read a word; now
to the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and
foxes; now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for sugar-
plums or gingerbread rather than for picture-books. And if Mr. Johnson
should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an hour's
talk to get a profit of only sixpence.

"My poor father!" thought Sam to himself. "How his head will ache! and
how heavy his heart will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he
bade me."

Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house. She did
not know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.

"Mother," said he, "did you think father seemed very ill to-day?"

"Yes, Sam," answered his mother, turning with a flushed face from the
fire, where she was cooking their scanty dinner. "Your father did look