“Well, but father,” said Rollo, “how does God give us our breakfast then?”
His father said, “Why, it is God who made the iron in the ground for the knives, and the clay for the plates and cups. He brings the summer and the sun. He makes the wheat sprout up and grow, and brings the showers of rain. He takes care too, of all the men who shape the cups, and make the knives, and gather the coffee, and grind the wheat. He does all this kindly for us,—so that Rollo and all the other boys in the world may have some breakfast. I think we ought to thank him.”
Rollo did not say any thing, but he thought so too.
FICTITIOUS STORIES.
“Father, will you tell me a story?” said Rollo one day.
Rollo’s father was sitting on the platform, leading out to the garden-yard.[*] It was a pleasant summer evening, just before sunset.
“Shall it be a true story, or a fictitious one?” said his father.
“What is fictitious?” asked Rollo.
“A story that is not true.”