Let us see what makes you think he is your father.  Because he loves you so much and gives you everything that you have—­clothes to wear, and food to eat, and fire to warm you?

Did he give you this new little gingham frock?  Shall we see what it is made of?  If you ravel out one end of the cloth, you can find the little threads of cotton which are woven together to make your frock.  Where did the cotton come from?

It grew in the hot fields of the South, where the sun shines very warmly.  Your father didn’t make it grow, neither did any man.  It is true a man, a poor black man, and a very sad man he was too, put the little seeds into the ground, but they would never have grown if the sun hadn’t shone, the soft earth nourished, and the rain moistened them.  And who made the earth, and sent the sun and the rain?

That must be somebody very kind and thoughtful, to take so much care of the little cotton-seeds.  I think that must be a father.

Now, what did you have for breakfast this morning?

A sweet Indian cake with your egg and mug of milk?  I thought so.  Who made this breakfast?  Did Bridget make the cake in the kitchen?  Yes, she mixed the meal with milk and salt and sugar.  But where did she get the meal?  The miller ground the yellow corn to make it.  But who made the corn?

The seeds were planted as the cottonseeds were, and the same kind care supplied sun and rain and earth for them.  Wasn’t that a father?  Not your father who sits at the head of the table and helps you at dinner, who takes you to walk and tells you stories, but another Father; your Father, too, he must be, for he is certainly taking care of you.

And doesn’t he make the corn grow, also, on that ant-hill behind Manenko’s house?  He seems to take the same care of her as of you.

Then the milk and the egg.  They come from the hen and the cow; but who made the hen and the cow?

It was the same kind Father again who made them for you, and made the camels and goats for Gemila and Jeannette; who made also the wild bees, and taught them to store their honey in the trees, for Manenko; who made the white rice grow and ripen for little Pen-se, and the sea-birds and the seals for Agoonack.  To every one good food to eat—­and more than that; for must it not be a very loving father who has made for us all the beautiful sky, and the stars at night, and the blue sea; who sent the soft wind to rock the brown baby to sleep and sing her a song, and the grand march of the Northern Lights for Agoonack—­grander and more beautiful than any of the fireworks you know; the red strawberries for little Jeannette to gather, and the beautiful chestnut woods on the mountain-side?  Do you remember all these things in the stories?

And wasn’t it the same tender love that made the sparkling water and sunshine for Pen-se, and the shining brown ducks for her too; the springs in the desert and the palm-trees for Gemila, as well as the warm sunshine for Manenko, and the beautiful River Rhine for Louise?