“Oh, no, ma, of course not!”
“Nor to drink when you are thirsty, nor to warm yourself when it is cold, nor to lie down to rest when you are weary.”
“Of course, ma, I do that. Everybody does.”
“But, Fred, who gives you your breakfast? Who provides a pleasant home for you; a fire and clothes to warm you; a bed for you to rest upon? Who gives you health and strength; a good appetite for your food? Who made your form erect and vigorous, instead of lame and deformed, like poor Israel Wasson? Do you ever think who has done all these things for you?”
“God made me,” said the boy; “and gave me all the blessings which I enjoy. That’s the answer in my catechism.”
“My little son,” said the lady, seriously; “you were much displeased because Mrs. Perry expressed no gratitude for the small favor you did her; but you confess that many mornings you forget to thank your heavenly Father for all his kindness to you. You said,—
“‘Catch me carrying her kitty home through all the mud again.’
“What if God should say, ‘I have given Frederick Carleton a good home, food to eat, clothes to wear, a house to live in, and friends to love him. I have done this for eight years; but he seldom thanks me. He jumps out of bed, runs to his breakfast, satisfies all his wants, but does not even think of me, the Giver of all his blessings. I will do nothing more for him. After this he shall be a poor, homeless wanderer, suffering from hunger and thirst, from cold and nakedness. I do hate people who don’t thank me for the favors which I bestow.’”