But do you imagine that sensible children, after one such discovery, would rest satisfied?  Of course they would explore and explore; try every panel, and press every spring, until, one by one, all the closets should be opened, and all the treasures brought out.  And then how could they show their gratitude to the dear father who had taken such pains to prepare this wonderful house for them?  The least they could do would be to try to use every thing for the purposes intended, and not to destroy or injure any of the precious gifts prepared so lovingly for their use.

Now, God, our loving Father, has made for us, for you and for me and for little Mage and Jenny, and for all the grown people and children too, just such a house.  It is this earth on which we live.  You can see the blue roof, and the arched ceilings of the rooms, with their canopy of leaves and drooping boughs, and the velvet-covered floors, and the lights and birds and fountains; but do you know any of the secret closets?  Have you found the key or spring of a single one, or been called by your mother or father or brother or sister to take a peep into one of them?

If you have not, perhaps you would like to go with me to examine one that was opened a good many years ago, but contains such valuable things that the uses of all of them have not yet been found out, and their beauty is just beginning to be known.

The doorway of this storehouse lies in the side of a hill.  It is twice as wide as the great barn-door where the hay-carts are driven in; and two railroad-tracks run out at it, side by side, with a little foot-path between them.  The entrance is light, because it opens so wide; but we can see that the floor slopes downward, and the way looks dark and narrow before us.  We shall need a guide; and here comes one,—­a rough-looking man, with smutty clothes, and an odd little lamp covered with wire gauze, fastened to the front of his cap.  He is one of the workmen employed to bring the treasures out of this dark storehouse; and he will show us, by the light of his lamp, some of the wonders of the place.  Walk down the sloping foot-path now, and be careful to keep out of the way of the little cars that are coming and going on each side of you, loaded on one side, and empty on the other, and seeming to run up and down by themselves.  But you will find that they are really pulled and pushed by an engine that stands outside the doorway and reaches them by long chains.  At last we reach the foot of the slope; and, as our eyes become accustomed to the faint light, we can see passages leading to the right and the left, and square chambers cut out in the solid hill.  So this great green hill, upon which you might run or play, is inside like what I think some of those large anthills must be,—­traversed by galleries, and full of rooms and long passages.  All about we see men like our guide, working by the light of their little lamps.  We hear the echoing sound of the tools; and we see great blocks and heaps that they have broken away, and loaded into little cars that stand ready, here and there, to be drawn by mules to the foot of the slope.