I hope none of my young friends will think any less of him when I
inform them that Bobby lived in an old black house which had never been
painted, which had no flower garden in front of it, and which, in a
word, was quite far from being a palace. A great many very nice city
folks would not have considered it fit to live in, would have turned up
their noses at it, and wondered that any human beings could be so
degraded as to live in such a miserable house. But the widow Bright,
Bobby's mother, thought it was a very comfortable house, and considered
herself very fortunate in being able to get so good a dwelling. She
had never lived in a fine house, knew nothing about velvet carpets,
mirrors seven feet high, damask chairs and lounges, or any of the smart
things which very rich and very proud city people consider absolutely
necessary for their comfort. Her father had been a poor man, her
husband had died a poor man, and her own life had been a struggle to
keep the demons of poverty and want from invading her humble abode.

Mr. Bright, her deceased husband, had been a day laborer in Riverdale.
He never got more than a dollar a day, which was then considered very
good wages in the country. He was a very honest, industrious man, and
while he lived, his family did very well. Mrs. Bright was a careful,
prudent woman, and helped him support the family. They never knew what
it was to want for any thing.

Poor people, as well as rich, have an ambition to be something which
they are not, or to have something which they have not. Every person,
who has an energy of character, desires to get ahead in the world.
Some merchants, who own big ships and big warehouses by the dozen,
desire to be what they consider rich. But their idea of wealth is very
grand. They wish to count it in millions of dollars, in whole blocks
of warehouses; and they are even more discontented than the day laborer