Again the ice was in her hand,
Her plaything for the day,
When all at once she cried aloud,
"The stone is running away."
A glass of water now was used,
Sure that would keep it hers.
But no! with all her loving watch
The same result occurs.
The plaything gone, at evening hour
She sat on uncle's knee.
"Who makes those white stones, you or God?"
She asked, inquiringly.
"In Miss Brown's land God makes them," answered he.
"But in Brazil a factory-man
Makes them for you and me."
A moment's pause. Then said the child,—
Heaven's blessing on her fall,—
"Why doesn't God get from Brazil
A man to make them all?"
[THE LITTLE DOUBTER.]
"Mamma, where is the sun to-day,
While all this rain comes down?"
Ah, little girl
Of flaxen curl,
Who has not asked before
This question o'er and o'er?
"Behind the clouds so thick and black
The sun is shining still,"
The mother quickly answered back,
Her child with faith to fill.