I settled down upon the conclusion that "rich" and "poor" were
book-words only, describing something far off, and having nothing
to do with our every-day experience. My mental definition of
"rich people," from home observation, was something like this:
People who live in three-story houses, and keep their green
blinds closed, and hardly ever come out and talk with the folks
in the street. There were a few such houses in Beverly, and a
great many in Salem, where my mother sometimes took me for a
shopping walk. But I did not suppose that any of the people who
lived near us were very rich, like those in books.
Everybody about us worked, and we expected to take hold of our
part while young. I think we were rather eager to begin, for we
believed that work would make men and women of us.
I, however, was not naturally an industrious child, but quite the
reverse. When my father sent us down to weed his vegetable-garden
at the foot of the lane, I, the youngest of his weeders, liked to
go with the rest, but not for the sake of the work or the pay.
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