The race
The race
Hereare two boys running a race. They seem to be striving to see which can run the swiftest; which can outstrip the other.
It is pleasant to run a race, if one is young and has a good pair of legs. I should make a bad business of it,—old and decrepit as I am,—and having a timber toe beside. Still, I can well recollect how I used to delight in trying my speed with my youthful companions, when I was a boy.
I remember very well, that, when I was young, there was a boy at school by the name of Rufus, and it chanced that he and myself were rivals in almost everything. We were always striving to see which should run the swiftest; which should hop the farthest; which should excel in writing, arithmetic, &c.
Now all this was very well, except one thing. Our rivalry at last went so far, that we desired victory more than anything else. We did not wish so much to do things well, as to triumph over our competitors. Nor was this all: we began at length to dislike each other, and a very bad feeling was therefore begotten by our strife, in our bosoms.
This was certainly wrong, and young people as well as old people should becareful never to indulge in any strife which leads to hatred. We should love all around us, for love is the chief source of happiness. Anything which interferes with this is wrong.