Bachelor bowed his head and said, “We will try.”
“Try, try, try,” chattered the brook.
“Art is next, I believe,” said Bachelor.
“Yes, art,” said a squirrel.
“Art is making pictures,” said the moss.
“Then the sunset must paint them, for there are no pictures made like those of the sunset,” said the wind.
The sun hastened to mix his paint, and in answer to the request that he would be professor of art, painted one of the most glorious sunset scenes that mortal eye has ever looked upon. Rapidly he dashed on the color, delicate greens and blues blending with the sea-shell pink, and glowing with deep crimson and gold, till the assembled committee fairly held their breaths with delight. The crimson and gold and purple in the west were beginning to fade and mix with soft greys and tender yellows, before the committee thought of returning to their work.
“What a lot of time we have wasted,” said the oldest squirrel; “to-morrow is Sunday, and of course we can’t work then, and now it is time to go home.”
“Not wasted, dear squirrel,” said White Violet, “not wasted when we were looking at God’s beautiful sunset.”