Your contribution has been sent to the lady who receives and takes care
of the money for Young People's Cot. Is Blue Ribbon the little kitten's
mother? I hope Old Indian is a gentle pony. From his name I should think
he might be quite fiery.
* * * * *
"PAPA, WHAT MAKES THE RAIN COME?"
Mabel and Ethel can't write for themselves, and they do not know
that I am writing to the Post-office Box to tell other little girls
about them. What here follows is not a made-up story; it is set
down almost word for word as it was spoken. The girls were in their
little beds, talking about different things, and papa was sitting
at the table reading a book by the light of the lamp. Thunder was
heard in the distance, and Ethel remarked that the rain was coming.
This led Mabel to ask the question which forms the title of this
letter, "Papa, what makes the rain come?"
While thinking about the best way to make her understand the
wonderful and beautiful natural process--how the sun draws up
vapors from land and sea, and stores the treasures of rain in the
clouds, returning them in showers of blessings upon the
earth--Ethel broke in with her views, thus relieving me of a
difficulty. So I kept quiet as a mouse, and listened while
pretending to read. Ethel, half raising herself in bed, thus
explained:
"Why, Mabel, I will tell you what makes the rain come. You see, God
is up there above the clouds, and He has wings, and flies from
place to place, all over. Then, you know, He has a pump, with a big
deep well, with lots, oh! lots of water in it, and on the pump
there is a rubber tube, with a sprinkler fastened to it. And then
He pumps, and pumps, and pumps, and the angels they pump, and the
water comes, and spurtles, and spurtles, and spurtles, and
spurtles, and spurtles, and spurtles; and that's what makes the
rain come."
These were the child's thoughts and expressions on the beautiful
phenomena of the rain. The explanation seemed sufficient and
satisfactory, as both little thinkers forthwith resigned themselves
into the loving arms of "tired nature's sweet restorer," and were
carried far away into the happy land of dreams.
F. J. T.
FARMINGTON, MINNESOTA.
* * * * *