When we have our minds set upon some pursuit in which we are resolved to excel, we are likely to forget any little disagreeable thing that troubles us at other times, and we are happy in our work. What pleasure a boy takes in fashioning his kite! What delight is it to a girl to put together ends of silks, ribbons and laces into a pretty bonnet for her doll! There is even pleasure in learning a Latin lesson, or in working out a difficult problem when we are interested, and are determined to do it well. The reason why so many grown persons are unhappy is because they have no occupation at all, or because they are engaged in some business which they do not like. The best cure for this is to take up some business, and make up your mind you _will_ like it, and try to do your very best. When a man’s business is in any branch of what we call Art he is, perhaps, happier than he could be at anything else; for, besides the satisfaction of doing the work, it is a pleasure to see beautiful things grow under our hands. I am going to tell you about two very happy men, who both lived in the same place—a small city in Peru. One was an artist, who spent all his time painting pictures. Let me introduce you into his home, that you may see in what kind of place this happy mortal passed his days. [Illustration: THE ARTIST AT WORK.] The room in which he painted—his studio—was below the level of the ground. To reach it from the street you went down three broken stone steps. Pretty much all the light the artist had came from the ever-open doorway. The floor was covered with straw, and scraps of vegetables, among which chickens and guinea-pigs picked up a living. His two best friends, a dog and a cat, usually shared the room with him. The cat had lost its ears and its tail, but was not the less liked by her master on that account. She was very fond of getting on his shoulder as he bent over his work, and sometimes would take a quite comfortable nap there. Certainly it was not a beautiful home that made the artist happy. He had the misfortune to be married to a woman who would have made most men miserable. She scolded from morning to night. The artist never could please her. No matter what he did, it was sure to be wrong in her eyes. She would stop while stirring the pot, and rail at him, shaking her greasy spoon to give emphasis to what she was saying. But the artist answered her never a word. He was so absorbed in his work that it is probable he did not hear her, half the time. And so it was not pleasant companionship, and loving words that made him happy.