"But we none of us sing well enough," said Ruth; "and grandmother, you know, is a very good musician. Let us do this: Let us come to her as the 'Four Seasons,' and each one salute her with a verse."
"Yes: that's a very pretty idea," cried Linda. "And I'll be Spring; for they say my eyes are blue as violets."
"Then I'll be Summer," cried Emma. "I like summer best."
"I'll be Autumn," said Johnny; "for, if there's any thing I like, it is grapes. Peaches, too, are not bad; and what fun it is to go a-nutting!"
"There's but one season left for me," said Ruth. "I must be Winter. No matter! Winter has its joys as well as the rest."
"But who'll write the verses for us?" asked Emma. "There must be a verse for every season."
"Oh, the teacher will write them for us!" cried Ruth. "No one could do it better."
And so, on the morning of grandmother's birthday, as she sat in her large armchair, with her own pussy on a stool at her side, the "Four Seasons" entered the room, one after another, and formed a semicircle in front of her. Grandmother was not a bit frightened. She smiled kindly; and then the "Seasons" spoke as follows:—
