IT'S VERY HARD.
"IT'S very hard to have nothing but porridge, when others have every sort of dainty!" muttered
Dick, as he sat with his wooden bowl before him.
"It's very hard to have to get up so early on these bitter mornings, and work all day, when others can enjoy themselves without an hour of labor!
It's very hard to have to trudge along through the snow, while others roll about in their coaches!"
"It's a great blessing," said his grandmother, as she 'sat at her knitting, "to have food when so many are hungry; it's a great blessing to have a roof over one's head when so many are homeless; it's a great blessing to have sight and hearing and strength for daily labor, when so many are blind, deaf, or suffering!"
"Why, grandmother, you seem to think that nothing is hard," said the boy, still in a grumbling tone.
"No, Dick; there is one thing that I do think very hard."
"What's that?" cried Dick, who thought that at last his grandmother had found some cause for complaint.
"Why, boy, I think that heart is very hard that is not thankful for so many blessings."