Complete.

WHEN I was a child, at seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled my pockets with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and they laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.

  This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, “Don’t give too much for the whistle”; and so I saved my money.

  As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

  When I saw any one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, “This man gave too much for his whistle.”

  When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect; “He pays, indeed,” says I, “too much for his whistle.”

  If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth; “Poor man,” says I, “you do indeed pay too much for your whistle.”

  When I meet a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporeal sensations; “Mistaken man,” says I, “you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle.”

  If I see one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in prison; “Alas,” says I, “he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.”

  When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl, married to an ill-natured brute of a husband; “What a pity it is,” says I, “that she has paid so much for a whistle.”

  In short, I conceived that great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.