act," continued Mr. Franklin, "can possibly be for the benefit of the
public generally, which involves injustice to any individual. It would be
easy to prove this by examples. But, indeed, can we suppose that our
all-wise and just Creator would have so ordered the affairs of the world,
that a wrong act should be the true method of attaining a right end? It is
impious to think so! And I do verily believe, Benjamin, that almost all
the public and private misery of mankind arises from a neglect of this
great truth--that evil can produce only evil--that good ends must be wrought
out by good means."

"I will never forget it again," said Benjamin, bowing his head.

"Remember," concluded his father, "that, whenever we vary from the highest
rule of right, just so far we do an injury to the world. It may seem
otherwise for the moment; but, both in Time and in Eternity, it will be
found so."

To the close of his life, Ben Franklin never forgot this conversation with
his father; and we have reason to suppose, that in most of his public and
private career, he endeavored to act upon the principles which that good
and wise man had then taught him.

After the great event of building the wharf, Ben continued to cut
wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for about two years. But, as he had no
love for that occupation, his father often took him to see various
artisans at their work, in order to discover what trade he would prefer.
Thus Ben learned the use of a great many tools, the knowledge of which
afterwards proved very useful to him. But he seemed much inclined to go to
sea. In order to keep him at home, and likewise to gratify his taste for
letters, the lad was bound apprentice to his elder brother, who had lately
set up a printing-office in Boston.

Here he had many opportunities of reading new books, and of hearing
instructive conversation. He exercised himself so successfully in writing
composition, that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, he
became a contributor to his brother's newspaper. Ben was also a versifier,
if not a poet. He made two doleful ballads; one about the shipwreck of
Captain Worthilake, and the other about the pirate Black Beard, who not
long before, infested the American seas.

When Ben's verses were printed, his brother sent him to sell them to the
town's-people, wet from the press. "Buy my ballads!" shouted Benjamin, as
he trudged through the streets, with a basketful on his arm. "Who'll buy a