"Who is that?" he asked his mother one day, pointing to a wood-cut that purported to portray a human being, as he lay sprawling on the floor, his favorite book opened out before him. "That is a king," replied his mother, looking down from her sewing. The mother and the boy were alone in the kitchen. "King David?" "No; a king of France." "King George?" "No; King George is king of England, where your father came from, and your grandfather, and of America, where we are. France is another country." "Where does this king live?" pointing to the wood-cut. "He is dead now. He died long ago. He lived in a city called Paris, in the country called France." "Is that a house?" The boy had turned to a supposed picture of the Louvre. "Yes, a great, big house, a palace they call it, because it belongs to the king." "Did it belong to that king?" "Yes, I think so. It is in the city where I told you that king lived, Paris." "Is this house in that city, too?" He indicated a building in the picture that showed the Pont Neuf. "Yes." The mother laid down her sewing and stooped beside the boy. "And so is this house in Paris. And this. And this, too. All these houses are in Paris." "Do all these people live there, the pretty ladies and soldiers?" "They all did, I suppose." "How many houses are there in Paris?" "Oh, a great many thousand." "More than there are in Carlisle?" "Oh, yes! A hundred times more." "Where is Paris?" "Oh, very, very far away." "Which way?" "Why, that way, I think." She pointed towards the east. "Your father can tell you exactly, when he comes in." "How far away is it? As far as Carlisle?" "Much farther than that. Your father can tell you." "As far as Lancaster?" "Oh, farther. Farther than Philadelphia. Away across land and water." "As far away as the farthest mountains yonder, the blue ones against the sky?" He had risen from the floor, and he pointed eastward through the open kitchen doorway. "Oh, yes. If you went clear across those mountains, you wouldn't be near Paris yet." "But if I went on and on, far enough, I'd get to Paris at last, wouldn't I?" "Yes, at last," said the mother, smiling, and drawing the boy to her and kissing him, impelled by the mere thought of the separation his query suggested to the fancy. When she returned to her sewing, he continued looking for awhile towards the distant east, then resumed his study of the pictures. At supper that evening he made his father laugh by asking which way a body should go, to get to Paris. His mother explained how his curiosity had been aroused. His father, laughing again, and winking at the mother, said: "Why, boy, a body would have to start by the road that goes down the river to your grandfather's, that's certain. And if a body travelled long enough, and never lost his way, yes, he would surely get to Paris at the end." "Would he be very tired when he got there?"