“Why, Lewis,” said his father, smiling, “one would think you had been studying some of the ancient poets, who wrote so much in praise of such a state as you have been supposing. But really, I cannot say I agree with you, in thinking that it would at all add to our comfort, constituted as we are, to be exempted from changes of weather and climate; even imagining that such a thing were possible. It is true, there is much enjoyment in the peace and quiet of a tranquil summer’s day, when we can leave the busy haunts of men for some secluded glen or mountain-path, while the sky above is blue and cloudless, and the broad sea looks still and beautiful. It is delightful then to listen to the sweet notes of the birds, and the low murmuring of the breeze; or even to watch the insects that sport in the sun-beams, as if they too rejoiced in their existence. But, do you think we should enjoy these pleasures, or prize them as we ought to do, if no changes in the elements disturbed the unvarying calmness of the scene? No doubt we should soon become listless and weary, tired of the sameness that reigned around, and longing for the hopes and fears that are now our motives to exertion, and add interest to labour. Even the sea which you have often looked at with so much delight, would cease to charm, if its aspect were always the same. And in all the works of the beneficent Creator we may observe, that with perfect beauty, endless variety and change are combined.” Mr. Ashton could not tell whether his little boy was convinced of the truth of his remarks, for Lewis was very busily employed in twirling the tassel of the window-blind, as though his whole thoughts were engrossed in the employ. Helen sat down to her needle, and her uncle took up the newspaper, and began to read. Helen saw that Lewis was sorry for this; and she asked her uncle if he were reading any thing very interesting. “No, my love,” replied he; “I hope you will not interrupt me by speaking or asking questions.” Lewis gave his cousin a look, which plainly said, thank you, Helen; and going up to his father, he exclaimed, “Dear papa! I am convinced that I was wrong—very wrong. I might have known that I should have been one of the first to complain, if things were as I seemed to wish them to be: and, papa, you need not tell me of how much use the rain is to us, and the wind too, which sends vessels from one port to another, and turns the sails of mills, and does a great deal more beside, I dare say. But now, papa, if you really do not want to read, may I ask you what it was that occasioned the thick mist, which seemed to hang over the sea last night, when mamma told us it was not fit for us to go out.” Mr. Ashton was pleased with Lewis’s frank confession of his fault; but he did not praise his little boy for doing his duty; he knew that the feeling of satisfaction that attended it, would be a sufficient reward.