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His mother did not know what to say. But she only said that there was some use for everybody. She knew that David was not wanting in intelligence. In practical affairs he showed more shrewdness than his brother. But his father had set his heart on making him a scholar. That very day the teacher had said to his father that it was no use.

“Your father,” she said, “intends to take you from school, and it is a great disappointment to him. But we know that you have done your best, and you must not be disheartened. If you were lazy, we should feel a great deal worse.”

Just then they came to the orchard brook. Here she saw in the dim light something moving in the water.

“What is that, David?” she said.

“That’s my flutter-wheel, and I feel like breaking it to pieces.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, all the boys made little water-mills to be run by the force of the stream. We call them ‘flutter-wheels.’ But I made one so curious that it beat them all,” he said.

“Show it to me, Davie,” she said. And David explained it to her, forgetting all about his unhappiness in the pleasure of showing the little cog-wheels, and the under-shot wheel that drove it.

“And why did you want to break it up?” she asked.

“Because, mother, Sam Peters said that I should never be good for anything but to make flutter-wheels, and it is true, I am afraid.”

“If you were a poor man’s son, Davie, you might be a good mechanic,” said his mother.

That night Davie resolved to be a mechanic. “I won’t be a good-for-nothing man in the world. If I can’t be a learned professor, I may be a good carpenter or a blacksmith. If I learn to make a good horseshoe, I’ll be worth something.” So the next morning he asked his father’s leave to enter a machine-shop. His father said he might, and with all the school-boys laughing at him, he took his tin-pail with his lunch in it, and went into the shop each morning. And now he began to love books, too. He gathered a library of works on mechanics. Everything relating to machinery he studied. He took up mathematics and succeeded. After a while he rose to a good position in the shop. And he became at last a great railroad engineer. He built that great bridge at Blankville.

“Why,” said John Harlan, “I thought your Uncle David built that.”

“So he did,” said Harry. “My uncle was the boy that could not learn Latin.”

“I suppose,” said Tom Miller, “that God has use for us all, boys. Perhaps Jimmy’s father was as much intended to make shoes as mine to preach. What a mistake it must be to get into the wrong place, though.”

“Come, you’re getting too awfully solemn, Tom,” said Jimmy Jackson; “you’ll put a fellow to sleep before he has time to go to bed.” And Jackson pretended to snore.

“The m-m-meeting’s adjourned,” said the president. “Jimmy Jackson will be the sp-speaker at the n-next m-m-meeting of the Cellar-d-door S-society.”