ed the little boy; "he is coming around by the wood;
and now he's going over the bridge. O father! make haste, and have some
apple dumpling."

"Tom," said his wife, as he came near, "art tired to-day?"

"Uncommon tired," said Tom, as he threw himself on the bench, in the
shadow of the thatch.

"Has anything gone wrong?" asked his wife; "what's the matter?"

"Matter!" repeated Tom; "is anything the matter? The matter is this,
mother, that I'm a miserable, hard-worked slave;" and he clapped his
hands upon his knees and uttered in a deep voice, which frightened the
children--"a miserable slave!"

"Bless us!" said the wife, but could not make out what he meant.

"A miserable, ill-used slave," continued Tom, "and always have been."

"Always have been?" said his wife: "why, father, I thought thou used to
say, at the election time, that thou wast a free-born Briton."

"Women have no business with politics," said Tom, getting up rather
sulkily. Whether it was the force of habit, or the smell of the dinner,
that made him do it, has not been ascertained; but it is certain that he
walked into the house, ate plenty of pork and greens, and then took a
tolerable share in demolishing the apple dumpling.

When the little children were gone out to play, Tom's wife said to him,
"I hope thou and thy master haven't had words to-day."

"We've had no words," said Tom, impatiently; "but I'm sick of being at
another man's beck and call. It's, 'Tom, do this,' and 'Tom do that,'
and nothing but work, work, work, from Monday morning till Saturday
night. I was thinking as I walked over to Squire Morton's to ask for the
turnip seed for master,--I was thinking, Sally, that I am nothing but a
poor workingman after all. In short, I'm a slave; and my spirit won't
stand it."

So saying, Tom flung himself out at the cottage door, and his wife
thought he was going back to his work as usual; but she was mistaken. He
walked to the wood, and there, when he came to the border of a little
tinkling stream, he sat down and began to brood over his grievances.

"Now, I'll tell you what," said Tom to himself, "it's much pleasanter
sitting here in the shade, than broiling over celery trenches, and
thinning wall fruit, with a baking sun at one's back, and a hot wall
before one's eyes. But I'm a miserable slave. I must either work or see
my family starve; a very hard lot it is to be a workingman."

"Ahem," said a voice close to him. Tom started, and, to