Ten miles he trudged through the woods to ask his mother's consent, which with some difficulty he obtained, for she did not know to what influences he might be subjected, and so he got started in a new business.
Whether he would have fulfilled his employer's prediction, and some day been at the head of a saltery of his own, we can not tell; but in time he became dissatisfied with his situation, and returning home, waited for Providence to indicate some new path on which to enter.
One thing, however, was certain: he would not be content to remain long without employment.

He had an active temperament, and would have been happiest when busy, even if he had not known that his mother needed the fruits of his labor.
He had one source of enjoyment while employed by the black-salter, which he fully appreciated.

Strange to say, his employer had a library, that is, he had a small collection of books, gathered by his daughter, prominent among which were Marryatt's novels, and "Sinbad the Sailor." They opened a new world to his young accountant, and gave him an intense desire to see the world, and especially to cross the great sea, even in the capacity of a sailor.

At home there was no library, not from the lack of literary taste, but because there was no money to spend for anything but necessaries.
He had not been long at home when a neighbor, entering one day, said, "James, do you want a job ?" "Yes," answered James, eagerly.
"There's a farmer in Newburg wants some wood chopped." "I can do it," said James, quietly.
"Then you'd better go and see him." Newburg is within the present limits of Cleveland, and thither James betook himself the next day.
He was a stout boy, with the broad shoulders and sturdy frame of his former ancestors, and he was sure he could give satisfaction.
The farmer, dressed in homespun, looked up as the boy approached.
"Are you Mr .-- -- ?" asked James.
"Yes." "I heard that you wanted some wood chopped." "Yes, but I am not sure if you can do it," answered the farmer, surveying the boy critically.
"I can do it," said James, confidently.
"Very well, you can try.

I'll give you seven dollars for the job." The price was probably satisfactory, for James engaged to do the work.
There proved to be twenty-five cords, and no one, I think, will consider that he was overpaid for his labor.
He was fortunate, at least, in the scene of his labor, for it was on the shore of Lake Erie, and as he lifted his eyes from his work they rested on the broad bosom of the beautiful lake, almost broad enough as it appeared to be the ocean itself, which he had a strange desire to traverse in search of the unknown lands of which he had read or dreamed.
I suppose there are few boys who have not at some time fancied that they should like "a life on the ocean wave, and a home on the rolling deep." I have in mind a friend, now a physician, who at the age of fifteen left a luxurious home, with the reluctant permission of his parents, for a voyage before the mast to Liverpool, beguiled by one of the fascinating narratives of Herman Melville.