at, for he lived long ago near a great
American forest. His father and mother had come from England, but his
father was dead now. His mother was very poor, but there were still a
few beautiful pictures on the walls of her house.

The little boy liked to copy these pictures; but as he was not fond of
work, he often threw his drawings away before they were half done. He
said that he wished that some good fairy would finish them for him.

"Child," said his mother, "I don't believe that there are any fairies. I
never saw one, and your father never saw one. Mind your books, my child,
and never mind the fairies."

"Very well, mother," said the boy.

"It makes me sad to see you stand looking at the pictures," said his
mother another day, as she laid her hand on his curly head. "Why, child,
pictures can't feed a body, pictures can't clothe a body, and a log of
wood is far better to burn and warm a body."

"All that is quite true, mother," said the boy.

"Then why do you keep looking at them, child?" but the boy could only
say, "I don't know, mother."

"You don't know! Nor I, neither! Why, child, you look at the dumb things
as if you loved them! Put on your cap and run out to play."

So the boy wandered off into the forest till he came to the brink of a
little sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; but it was
deep and clear, and was overhung with tall trees. It was evening, and
the sun was getting low. The boy stood still beside the water and
thought how beautiful it was to see the sun, red and glorious, between
the black trunks of the pine trees. Then he looked up at the great blue
sky and thought how beautiful it was to see the little clouds folding
over one another like a belt of rose-colored waves. Then he looked at
the lake and saw the clouds and the sky and the trees all reflected
there, down among the lilies.

And he wished that he were a painter, for he said to himself, "I am sure
there are no trees in the world with such beautiful leaves as these
pines. I am sure there are no clouds in the world so lovely as these. I
know this is the prettiest little lake in the world, and if I could
paint it, every one else would know it, too."

But he had nothing to paint with. So he picked a lily and sat down with
it in his hand and tried very hard to make a correct drawing of it. But
he could not make a very good picture. At last he threw down his drawing
and said to the lily:

"You are too beautiful to