In these old times, the Mohawk Indians were still numerous in Pennsylvania.  Every year a party of them used to pay a visit to Springfield, because the wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood there.  These wild men grew fond of little Ben, and made him very happy by giving him some of the red and yellow paint with which they were accustomed to adorn their faces.  His mother, too, presented him with a piece of indigo.  Thus he now had three colors,—­red, blue, and yellow—­and could manufacture green, by mixing the yellow with the blue.  Our friend Ben was overjoyed, and doubtless showed his gratitude to the Indians by taking their likenesses, in the strange dresses which they wore, with feathers, tomahawks, and bows and arrows.

But, all this time, the young artist had no paint-brushes, nor were there any to be bought, unless he had sent to Philadelphia on purpose.  However, he was a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture paint-brushes for himself.  With this design, he laid hold upon—­what do you think? why, upon a respectable old black cat, who was sleeping quietly by the fireside.

“Puss,” said little Ben to the cat, “pray give me some of the fur from the tip of thy tail!”

Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben was determined to have the fur, whether she were willing or not.  Puss, who had no great zeal for the fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy was armed with his mother’s scissors, and very dexterously clipped off fur enough to make a paint-brush.  This was of so much use to him, that he applied to Madam Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had become so thin and ragged, that she could hardly keep comfortable through the winter.  Poor thing! she was forced to creep close into the chimney-corner, and eyed Ben with a very rueful physiognomy.  But Ben considered it more necessary that he should have paint-brushes, than that 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 thou 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.”