His round, blue eyes never left Aunt Charlotte's face while she was
reading. The story of Ponce de Leon's search for the fountain of youth
was more exciting than any fairy tale that he had ever heard. He saw no
pathos in the old Spaniard's useless search. The picture which the
history painted for him showed only the little band of swarthy men
following their handsome, white-haired leader through the wild,
unexplored South, their picturesque, gaily colored costumes gleaming in
the sunlight.

How brilliant the pageant! How brave, how valiant they must have
appeared! Even the gorgeous wild flowers paled with chagrin as the bold,
venturesome Spaniards trampled them underfoot as they marched steadily
onward, hoping yet to find the crystal fountain which should grant to
them eternal youth.

When Aunt Charlotte ceased reading, she said: "Now, take your pencils,
and write all that you remember of what I have read."

How their pencils flew! In a short time their papers were ready, and the
little pupils proved that they had been attentive, many of the sketches
giving the story almost word for word. Of course the older girls had
written most accurately, but a few lines which little Flossie Barnet had
written showed her tender, loving heart.

"I'm sorry for the poor old Spanyard, for a fountane like that wouldn't
be _anywhere_, so I wish he and his brave men had sailed across the sea
and land to hunt for something that he could truly find."

Some faulty spelling, but no error in the loving, tender heart. The