puss should be warm.

About this period friend West received a visit from Mr. Pennington, a
merchant of Philadelphia, who was likewise a member of the Society of
Friends. The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it
ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds with beautiful
plumage, and of the wild flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was
ever seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.

"Why, Friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia merchant, "what has
possessed thee to cover thy walls with all these pictures? Where on
earth didst then get them?"

Then Friend West explained that all these pictures were painted by
little Ben, with no better materials than red and yellow ochre and a
piece of indigo, and with brushes made of the black cat's fur.

"Verily," said Mr. Pennington, "the boy hath a wonderful faculty. Some
of our friends might look upon these matters as vanity; but little
Benjamin appears to have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser
than we are."

The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and evidently considered
him a wonderful boy. When his parents saw how much their son's
performances were admired, they, no doubt, remembered the prophecy of
the old Quaker preacher respecting Ben's future eminence. Yet they
could not understand how he was ever to bccome a very great and useful
man merely by making pictures.

One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington's return to Philadelphia, a