Another birthday dawns--the eighty-sixth, How little take we note of fleeting time! Since last this day of joyful glee was here What blessings have been mine; alas! how oft Have unrequited been! The cares of life Engross my thoughts when holy things my heart Should fill. Thou who hast made my way of life So full of mercies, be Thou still my help. When o'er this day of life the night shall fall, And called my feet to pass thro' ways unknown, Be near me still; be Thou my strength; and when The walls decay leave not the tenant lone, But by Thy Spirit comfort and uphold; I have but Thee, I have no claim of Gate Of Pearl, or Street of Glittering Gold, but thro' Thy boundless grace, my good and bad are both Forgiven. In humble fitting place among The many mansions, where there is no sin, And by Thy Crystal River flowing on Through Heaven's green expanse, I'll learn the new And holy song of Worthy is the Lamb, And 'neath the Healing Tree shall find that life Wished for so long!!! Then he loves to take you about his house, for it is a very beautiful home, and the man who owns it enjoys its comforts the more, for he will honestly tell you that it meant working for. "I don't do anything without authority," he told me; "I have authority for everything I paint. If I want a sky for any particular picture, I do it from my house. I have windows from all four sides, so that I can see always. Then in the summer I can sit on the lawn and paint. There are some of my sheep--my 'models'!" We were standing in the recess of the dining-room. Before us were the fields covered with snow, and some sheep were labouring hard to find a stray tuft of grass here and there. Ever since the artist built the house--forty-five years ago--he has kept sheep here and painted them every year. These finely coated creatures before us now are admirable representatives of some ninety ewes and a similar number of lambs. Of bullocks, the great cattle painter has few, though he invariably fattens up three or four every autumn. Some hours later we again stood in this corner and watched the setting sun. A great cloud edged with gold hung over a black patch of trees. "Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Cooper, enthusiastically, "it was in that very wood that I first began to study trees. There were some fine old trees there--too far gone to cut for timber. A farm stood on the opposite side of the hill, which I have put in three of my pictures. How well I remember seeing the chains and the gibbet in the road which skirts the wood there--used for hanging Charles Storey, who committed murder the year after I was born."