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. He had copied portions of two of the engravings, and made one picture out of both, with such admirable skill that it was far more beautiful than the originals. 66 My dear child, thou hast done wonders!" cried his mother. The good lady was delighted. 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. Well, time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw and paint pictures until he had now reached the age when it was proper that he should choose a business for life. His father and mother were in considerable perplexity about him. Now what advantage could the world expect from Benjamin's pictures? This was a difficult question, and in order to set their minds at rest, his parents determined to consult the wise men of their society. Finally, they came to a very wise decision. It seemed evident that Providence had created Benjamin to be a painter, and had given him abilities which would be thrown away in any other business. All consented that he should go forth into the world and learn to be a painter by studying the best pictures of ancient and modern times. So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his parents, and his native woods and streams, and the good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians who had given him his first colors. He went first to Philadelphia and afterward to Europe. When he was twenty-five years old, he went to London and established himself there as an artist. In due course of time he acquired great fame by his pictures and was made chief painter to King George III. When the Quakers of Pennsylvania heard of his success, they felt that the prophecy of the old preacher as to little Ben's future eminence was now accomplished. It is true they shook their heads at his pictures of battle and bloodshed, such as the Death of General Wolfe, thinking that these terrible scenes should not be held up to the admiration of the world. He lived many years in peace and honor, and died in 1820 at the age of eighty-two. The story of his life is almost as wonderful as a fairy tale; for there are few stranger transformations than that of a little, unknown Quaker boy in the wilds of America into the most distinguished English painter of his day. - NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep, tangled wildwood, And every loved spot that my infancy knew. The widespreading pond, and the mill that stood by it; The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness it rose from the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY I WHAT flower is this that greets the morn, II In savage Nature's far abode Its tender seed our fathers sowed; |