CHAPTER XXI.
"That is one of your very prettiest stories, Ditto," cried Maggie when he stopped.
"Yes," said Flora, "I think so."
"It must be a good story that can be listened to here," said Mr. Murray,—"and I have been listening with great attention. I have been thinking, while I was looking out over all this beauty and receiving so much by my ears of another kind of beauty,—I have been thinking and rejoicing to myself over the fact, how good our God is. 'Mountains, and all hills; fruitful trees, and all cedars; young men and maidens; old men and children: let them praise the name of the Lord.'"
"Uncle Eden," said Maggie meditatively, "how can hills praise the Lord?—or trees?"
"Don't they?"
"How, Uncle Eden?"
"Don't they, I ask?"
"But they could not hear anybody tell them to praise."
"You are a literalist. How can 'the trees of the field clap their hands'?"