the shore of the bay, and whittled a soaked
shingle into a wooden chain. His children that
evening quarreled over it, and he whittled a
second one to keep peace. While he was whittling
the second one a neighbor came in and said:
``Why don't you whittle toys and sell them? You
could make money at that.'' ``Oh,'' he said, ``I
would not know what to make.'' ``Why don't
you ask your own children right here in your
own house what to make?'' ``What is the use
of trying that?'' said the carpenter. ``My children
are different from other people's children.''
(I used to see people like that when I taught
school.) But he acted upon the hint, and the
next morning when Mary came down the stairway,
he asked, ``What do you want for a toy?''
She began to tell him she would like a doll's bed,
a doll's washstand, a doll's carriage, a little doll's
umbrella, and went on with a list of things that
would take him a lifetime to supply. So, consulting
his own children, in his own house, he took
the firewood, for he had no money to buy lumber,
and whittled those strong, unpainted Hingham
toys that were for so many years known all over
the world. That man began to make those toys
for his own children, and then made copies and
sold them through the boot-and-shoe store next
door. He began to make a little money, and then
a little more, and Mr. Lawson, in his _Frenzied
Finance_ says that man is the richest man in old