Triumphantly the toiler roared, “I get three bones a day and board! That’s going some, eh, what?” And on he labored, brave and strong; the work was hard, the hours were long, the day was passing hot. I sat at ease beneath a tree—that sort of thing appeals to me—and watched him as he toiled; the sweat rolled down him in a stream, and I could see his garments steam, his face and hands were broiled. He chuckled as he toiled away, “They’re paying me three bones a day, with board and washing, too!” That was his dream of easy mon—to stew and simmer in the sun, for that, the long day through! And I, who earn three iron men with sundry scratches of a pen, felt sorry for the jay; but, as I watched his stalwart form, the pity that was growing warm within me, blew away. For he was getting more than wealth—keen appetite and rugged health, and blessings such as those; and when the day of toil was through, no doubt the stalwart worker knew a weary child’s repose!