“Of course, of course; certainly, certainly,” chattered the brook. * * * * * “What comes next?” softly asked the wild rose. “The next thing to do is to appoint a committee to make out the programme,” remarked the fish. “Committee! Who is that?” cried a butterfly. [Illustration: “THERE IS THE GOLDEN-ROD NOW.”] “Programme! what’s programme?” chirped a sparrow. “O dear! we need a dictionary,” sighed the roses. [Illustration: “COMMITTEE! WHO’S THAT?”] “What’s a dictionary?” asked a little upstart of a fern. “Silence!” sternly commanded Bachelor. “Will Miss Rose kindly explain the meaning of dictionary, after which Mr. Fish will proceed to tell us about programme and committee.” Little Rose blushed all over her pretty face, and after thinking a moment, replied,— “A dictionary is a book that tells what all words mean.” “Oh!” sighed the wind, “we must have a dictionary.” Mr. Fish having made a dash up stream after a fly, now resumed his sedate manner and spoke: “My friends, a programme says what we will have every day, and a committee are the ones who make it.” “Then let’s all be committee,” said the buttercup. “That’s a very good plan,” said Bachelor. “Now, what shall we have? They always have a prayer meeting first at Chautauqua.” “We can all pray,” said the elm. “Let us have a prayer meeting first every morning to thank the dear God for the new day, and let the rising sun be the leader.” “That is good,” said the flowers, and bright rays of light, the sun’s little children, kissed them tenderly. “What is next?” “They have a large choir, and every morning after the prayer meeting they meet and practise with the great organ and piano and band.” “We will be the singers,” chorused the birds. “I will tinkle, tinkle, like a piano,” sang the brook, “tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,—” “I will play the band, for I have very many instruments at my command, and my friend the thunder will play the organ, while you, dear old trees, shall be my violins and harps, and every morning we will practise,” said the wind. “What do they have next at Chautauqua?” asked a pert blackbird. “Lectures,” said the fish. “What are lectures?” “Talks about things.” [Illustration: “I WILL TINKLE, TINKLE, LIKE A PIANO,” SAID THE BROOK.] “What things?” “Oh! evolution and literature and theology and philosophy and art and poetry and science, and a great many other things.” The high-sounding words rolled out from that fish’s mouth as if he actually thought he understood them. Silence reigned for a few minutes, deep and intense, at last broken by the white violet: “We never could have all those, for we don’t know anything about them. And who could talk about such things? None of us.” Silence again. They were all thinking earnestly. “I don t believe it. Not one word,” chattered a saucy squirrel. “That’s a fish story. As if _you_ could get on dry land and go to lectures.”