that Ben would become a preacher, and
would convert multitudes to the peaceful doctrines of the Quakers. Friend
West and his wife were thought to be very fortunate in having such a son.

Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years, without doing any thing
that was worthy to be told in history. But, one summer afternoon, in his
seventh year, his mother put a fan into his hand, and bade him keep the
flies away from the face of a little babe, who lay fast asleep in the
cradle. She then left the room.

The boy waved the fan to-and-fro, and drove away the buzzing flies
whenever they had the impertinence to come near the baby's face. When they
had all flown out of the window, or into distant parts of the room, he
bent over the cradle, and delighted himself with gazing at the sleeping
infant. It was, indeed, a very pretty sight. The little personage in the
cradle slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands under its chin, looking
as full of blissful quiet as if angels were singing lullabies in its ear.
Indeed, it must have been dreaming about Heaven; for, while Ben stooped
over the cradle, the little baby smiled.

"How beautiful she looks!" said Ben to himself. "What a pity it is, that
such a pretty smile should not last forever!"

Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard of that wonderful
art, by which a look, that appears and vanishes in a moment, may be made
to last for hundreds of years. But, though nobody had told him of such an
art, he may be said to have invented it for himself. On a table, near at
hand, there were pens and paper, and ink of two colors, black and red. The
boy seized a pen and sheet of paper, and kneeling down beside the cradle,
began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was busied in this
manner, he heard his mother's step approaching, and hastily tried to
conceal the paper.

"Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?" inquired his mother,
observing marks of confusion in his face.

At first, Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as if there might be
something wrong in stealing the baby's face, and putting it upon a sheet
of paper. However, as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into
her hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well scolded. But when
the good lady saw what was on the paper, in lines of red and black ink,
she uttered a scream of surprise and joy.

"Bless me!" cried she. "It is a picture of little Sally!"

And then she threw her arms round our