When I was a boy, I had to study Latin grammar, but it was dull, and I hated it.  My father was anxious to send me to college, and therefore I studied the grammar, till I could bear it no longer, and going to my father, I told him I did not like study, and asked for some other employment.  It was opposing to his wishes, and he was quick in his answer.  “Well, John, if Latin grammar does not suit you, you may try ditching; perhaps that will; my meadow yonder needs a ditch, and you may put by Latin to try that.”  This seemed a delightful change, and to the meadow I went.  But soon I found ditching harder than Latin, and the first forenoon was the longest I ever experienced.  That day I ate the bread of Labour (sic), and glad was I when night came on.  That night I made some comparison between Latin grammar and ditching, but said not a word about it.  I dug next forenoon, and wanted to return to Latin at dinner; but it was humiliating, and I could not do it.  At night, toil conquered pride; and though it was one of the severest trials I ever had in my life, I told my father that, if he chose, I would go back to Latin grammar.  He was glad of it; and if I have since gained any distinction, it has been owing to the two days’ labour in that abominable ditch.