Puss," said little Ben to the cat, "pray give me some of the fur from the tip of thy tail."

Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben was determined to have the fur, whether she were willing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal for the fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy was armed with his mother's scissors, and very dexterously clipped off fur enough to make a paint brush.

This was of so much use to him that he applied to Madam Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had become so thin and ragged that she could hardly keep comfortable through the winter.

Poor thing! she was forced to creep close to the chimney corner, and eyed Ben with a very rueful face. But Ben considered it more necessary that he should have paint brushes than that puss should be

warm.

About this period friend West received a visit from Mr. Pennington, a merchant of Philadelphia, who was likewise a member of the Society of Friends. The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds with beautiful plumage, and of wild flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was ever seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.

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Why, friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia

merchant, "what has possessed thee to cover thy walls with all these pictures? Where on earth didst thou get them?"

Then friend West explained that all these pictures were painted by little Ben, with no better materials. than red and yellow ochre and a piece of indigo, and brushes made of the black cat's fur.

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Verily," said Mr. Pennington, "the boy hath wonderful faculty. Some of our friends might look upon these matters as vanity; but little Benjamin appears to have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser than we are."

The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and evidently considered him a wonderful boy.

When his parents saw how much their son's performances were admired, they, no doubt, remembered the prophecy of the old Quaker preacher respecting Ben's future eminence. Yet they could not understand how he was ever to become a very great and useful man merely by making pictures.

One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington's return to Philadelphia, a package arrived at Springfield directed to our little friend Ben.

"What can it possibly be?" thought Ben, when it was put into his hands. "Who can have sent me such a great square package as this?"

On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped it, behold! there was a paint box, with a great

many cakes of paint, and brushes of various sizes. It was the gift of good Mr. Pennington.

There were likewise several squares of canvas, such as artists use for painting pictures upon, and, in addition to all these treasures, some beautiful engravings of landscapes. These were the first pictures that Ben had ever seen, except those of his own drawing.

What a joyful evening was this for the little artist! At bedtime he put the paint box under his pillow, and got hardly a wink of sleep; for all night long his fancy was painting pictures in the darkness.

In the morning he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the dinner hour; nor did he give himself time to eat more than a mouthful or two of food before he hurried back to the garret again.

The next day, and the next, he was just as busy as ever; until at last his mother thought it time to ascertain what he was about. She accordingly followed him to the garret.

On opening the door the first object that presented itself to her eyes was our friend Benjamin, giving the last touches to a beautiful picture. picture. He had copied portions of two engravings, and made one picture out of both, with such admirable skill that it was far more beautiful than the originals. The grass, the trees, the water, the sky, and the houses were all painted in their proper colors. There, too,

were the sunshine and the shadow, looking as natural as life.

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My dear child, thou hast done wonders!" cried his mother. The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight.

And well she might be proud of her boy; for there were touches in this picture which old artists, who had spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been ashamed of.

Many a year afterward, this wonderful production was exhibited in the Royal Academy in London.

The site I had chosen for a shanty was near to a little brook, on the top of the main river's bank. In fine weather, no situation could be more beautiful; the brook was as clear as crystal, and fell in a small cascade into the river, which, broad and deep, ran beneath the bank with a swift but smooth current.

The forest up the river had not been explored above

a mile or two; all beyond was unknown wilderness. Some vague rumors of small lakes and beaver dams were circulated in the village, but no importance was attached to the information; except for the occasional little torrents with which the rain sometimes hastily threatened to extinguish our fires, we had no cause to dread inundation.

The rain still continued to fall incessantly; the pools it formed in the hollows of the ground began, toward noon, to overflow their banks, and to become united. By and by something like a slight current was observed passing from one to another; but thinking only of preserving our fire, we no farther noticed this than by occasionally running out of the shanty into the shower, and scraping a channel to let the water run off into the brook or the river.

It was hoped that about noon the rain would slacken; but in this we were disappointed. It continued to increase, and the ground began to be so flooded, while the brook swelled to a river, that we thought it might become necessary to shift our tent to a higher part of the bank.

To do this, however, we were reluctant; for it was impossible to encounter the deluge without being almost instantly soaked to the skin; and we had put up the shanty with more pains than usual, intending it should serve us for a home until our house was comfortably furnished.